Accidental Disciples
by countess z
Summary: According to ancient prophecy, an outlander hero is destined to save Morrowind. Yet between the petty skirmishes of the Great Houses, financial exploitation by the Empire, the Tribunal's crusade of terror and censorship, and the insidious Sixth House hypnotizing people with poison dreams, it's difficult to decide which threat is most pressing. It's probably the cliff racers.
1. Outset

**A/N: This story of mine is an alternate telling of Morrowind's plot. This Nerevarine's journey will differ vastly from the story we know in the game, though I intend to maintain the spirit and mood of the original work. I hope you enjoy it all the same.**

* * *

 **Balmora.**

"Stare at the river too long, outlander, and you'll fall in. Stand aside."

Nilseth Valericus was jolted out of his thoughts as someone shoved roughly past him. Blinking, he saw a guard dressed in the characteristically Hlaalu bonemold armor hustling across a bridge to break up a fight between two shirtless men outside a cornerclub. More than likely on purpose, the strength at which the guard pushed Nils aside was enough to make him lose his balance and he nearly did fall into the River Odai running through Balmora. Unlike in Cyrodiil, the stone bridges here did not have hand rails to prevent such accidents. He pulled his sight away from the ever-flowing river and moved on, keeping his eyes down as he walked past the undoubtedly mazte-induced altercation between a Nord and a Dunmer.

Outlander. He had come to hear this word a lot, and he had only been in Vvardenfell four days.

 _You looking for a fight, outlander?_

 _Out of the way, outlander._

 _Got my eye on you, outlander._

 _No touching the wares, outlander, unless you have the gold to buy it._

While Nils would be categorized a Dark Elf by the scribbling Imperials in the census, to the Dunmer he would always be a half-breed, an outlander. His lighter skin, the same grey as wood ash, was enough for him to be scorned. If one were to look closely they would see his eyes were not completely red but almost magenta, much resembling the color of blackberry wine.

Yes, in Cyrodiil he had to face jeers – "ashborn" was a popular epithet by the children in the schoolyard, but he was for the most part treated with decency. Most races were, provided they followed Imperial rules and customs. Yet here in Morrowind, though he looked more like a Dunmer than an Imperial, Nils faced an extreme form of racism that he had never experienced before.

It was a known fact that the Dunmer were distrustful of foreigners. But a Dunmer born outside of Morrowind, especially a Dunmer with traits of Men, would be even more despised than a full-blooded Imperial.

He had done as Cosades suggested and purchased a cuirass and pair of boots stitched from boiled Netch leather. They had a... unique smell. At least now he was out of his dirty prison rags and could pass at being something slightly less offensive than a blighted rat.

All he needed now was a better weapon than the dull iron shortsword he had found in an abandoned bandit cave knee-deep in swamp water. The sword was tiny; reminiscent of a practice blade he had once used as a child. Inappropriate for someone well into his thirties like him. No wonder the bandits left it behind.

After six years in prison though, he realized his swordsmanship may be even rustier than this blade. He had only used it once to threaten a young pickpocket on the road from Seyda Neen, but the urchin only dropped his meager coin purse and ran away. Anyone with an ounce of mettle would scoff at that sorry excuse for a sword.

Nils took a good look at his surroundings.

Balmora. Stone forest. An apt name for the city carved between two mountain ranges. On one side of the river were the book stores and blacksmiths, the multi-storied estates of the wealthy, the Guild of Mages and the Guild of Fighters. On the other side of the river stood the modest homes of the working class. Even further back were the slums, the seedy cornerclubs, the skinny unkempt children of their addict parents. Caius Cosades, that crafty Imperial agent, knew well to hide among paupers and moon-sugar fiends; if there was one thing the Dunmer loved to completely ignore, it was a poor foreigner. Nils didn't trust that man, but whatever task the Emperor had for him was better than wasting his life in prison. It was for this reason that his feet began to carry him towards Suran early that morning. Find the Argonian named Sees-Through-Dusk in Suran. That was his first task. It was simple enough, for now at least. What other choice did he have? The Emperor had granted him an official pardon, and he could take it away just as easily.

* * *

 **Fields of Kummu.**

Nils must have taken a wrong turn somewhere after passing Fort Moonmoth, for he did not see any more signs. He wasn't certain he cared too much, for the area he presently found himself in was nothing short of beautiful after emerging from that ashen wasteland. Endless fields of wild heather spread a fragrant cerise blanket across the land. The sun sparkled on the waters of a nearby lake. He knelt beside the bank and cupped his hands to drink from the crystal clear water, taking a pause to fill his empty jug. Nils leaned against a large boulder, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

Freedom. Not long ago he was in an Imperial prison, unsure if he would see the sun again. Now he felt its warmth on his face and smiled for the first time in what must have been years.

Though he vaguely kept in the back of his mind that someone very powerful wanted him to speak immediately with an informant in Suran about some ancient Dunmer prophecies for reasons not yet divulged to him, the urgency of this task mellowed and he allowed some time to himself to savor the feeling of breathing outdoor air, wondering if the tinge of ash in each breath would eventually roughen his vocal cords enough to where he would sound like the locals.

Nils wondered if his mother was doing alright. Maybe she was still in Cheydinhal and had turned their old house into an Inn. She was always practical like that. He wanted to see her, or at least know that she was safe. But Nils could not show his face in Cyrodiil yet unless he wanted to go straight back to prison.

From his sack he pulled out a raw ash yam and began to peel it with a knife. He had heard about this curious crop that grew out of the volcano ash, and a nearby plantation had been almost completely razed to make way for new crops save for a few hardy plants, which Nils took the liberty of unearthing.

He supposed it would be alright to eat it raw. It was just like a potato, right? Eating it raw might not taste good, but he needed to keep his strength up and he had nothing else.

The first bite made his eyes water. Yes, like a potato, if a potato were filled with ash on the inside. The smell of sulfur made the experience even more unpleasant, and he swallowed chunks down after hardly chewing. How the Dunmer of the Red Mountain region managed to live on a diet based on ash yams was beyond him. He would take the mystery stew and stale bread they fed him in the Imperial City's prison over this, gladly. But Nils forced himself to eat the rest of the ash yam and washed it down with some water. If only he had some brandy to rid himself of that dusty aftertaste still in his mouth...

It was something he would have to get used to. Hopefully he would be able to tolerate the taste when they were boiled.

Nils closed his eyes again, feeling slightly sick to his stomach after that ash yam. Perhaps they weren't meant to be consumed raw. Oh, well. At least he wouldn't be hungry, if he could manage to keep it down.

At the sound of quiet footsteps on the grass Nils opened one eye. He kept a hand on that shortsword, for whatever good it might do him.

Upon looking up he saw a tall, slim figure in a hooded dark green robe. Female by the look of it, but the hood obscured her face. Her boots were worn, and the only thing close to a weapon that she held was a gnarled oak staff, which appeared to be more useful for traversing slopes than warding off attackers. Nils stared, nearly mystified. He slung his pack over his shoulder and followed her. Upon hearing his footsteps the woman stopped in her tracks and turned around.

She was just as tall as he was, though Nils admitted to being a few inches shorter than the average Dunmer male due to his mixed heritage.

Her dark skin was smooth as obsidian and her features symmetrical on her oval face. Her almond-shaped red eyes examined the stranger in front of her; without judgment, yet still with impassivity. She had all the graces and beauty of a woman of the nobility, yet she wore the simple robes of a pilgrim.

"Greetings, miss. I could not help but notice you walking by, and perhaps thought you would be able to help another traveler? I've lost my way, you see..."

Nils trailed off. Another thing that prison had dulled were his social abilities, and his awkwardness was apparent.

But the woman smiled and bowed her head, gaze flickering humbly downwards as she turned around and headed back in her original direction. Nils took this as an invitation to follow.

"Not one for conversation, are you? That's fine. I am Nilseth, son of – well, that doesn't matter anymore. Just call me Nils. Do you have a name?"

Again, he was met with silence. The Dunmer woman only looked down as she continued to walk, though she did not quicken her pace or give any indication that his presence was unwelcome. In a short while they were facing a small, unassuming shrine with an inscription. Temple shrines. Nils had been given a brief history of the Tribunal Temple's influence, but he knew little about the tenets of their religion other than from history books with a clear Imperial bias.

As he knelt to read the inscription the Dunmer woman headed in the direction of the lake. Nils watched her reach in to pull out two handfuls of muck. She handed one of the handfuls to Nils, who accepted the muck without question, not wishing to offend. The silent pilgrim knelt beside Nils in front of the shrine, her lips mouthing the words on the shrine. She placed the muck at its base. Nils followed suit. Without thinking, he began to read the inscription out loud.

"Here Lord Vivec met a poor farmer whose guar had died."

But Nils paused when he realized that the woman's silence might have been something that held meaning. Embarrassed, he looked down at his lap, clearing his throat and shaking his head.

But then the woman did a startling thing by placing a dark hand on his arm. She looked up at him and nodded, something close to amusement in her eyes, as if she were encouraging him to continue reading aloud. He obliged, learning about how the god Vivec taught the lesson of humility by toiling in the muck fields like a beast of burden. He thought upon this inscription for a moment, wondering if the Nine Divines would turn away from him for this. Nils had been taught by his father to respect the Divines, and though he had never been completely devout, he still accepted their divinity. But to revere this Almsivi... these god-kings who were once mortals... it seemed almost profane.

Yet Nils could not deny the power he suddenly felt flowing through his veins after reading the inscription. He felt lighter, featherweight, and his shoulders no longer strained from the pack over his shoulders. The hard leather armor now felt light as silk.

As his reverie faded and he became aware again of his ill-fitted Netch armor and toy sword Nils felt almost embarrassed to be sitting beside such a beautiful woman with such a regal presence. But she seemed to enjoy his company for reasons unknown to him, even if she did not speak it, and they both stood up in unison, making fleeting eye contact with each other.

"Could you possibly point me in the direction of Suran?" he asked.

The woman only smiled automatically, though in a way it seemed artificial. The same type of mechanical, obligatory kindness he recognized from certain members of the clergy of the Divines. She bowed at the waist, so graceful that she never moved her head or neck. Nils followed after her. Indeed, they only walked a short while until they reached a bridge. In the distance he saw the distinct Hlaalu banner and that familiar architecture: rows of stone-block structures with sharp corners like the ones he had seen in Balmora. He could even hear the moan of the Silt Strider. And while he had stopped only a moment to examine the scenery, his silent companion had already vanished past the arches into Suran.


	2. Trouble in Suran

**Suran.**

Suran was not as large as Balmora, and Nils could tell that its citizens were slightly more accepting of outsiders... or were at least accepting of the half-naked exotic foreigners performing in the streets, advertising for a nearby cornerclub, with a sign boasting the "earthly delights" available for the weary traveler or pilgrim. Nils hoped that the latter suggestion was made in jest.

As he watched a female Khajiit elongating the process of undress with a dance to an enthusiastic lute player, a dirty-faced child ran up to Nils, pleading for him to buy some flowers. Knowing that beggars and urchins were the best to ask about any secrets or local happenings, Nils took this as an opportunity. They were invisible to most, and thus allowed to see things that others did not want anyone to see.

"I do have a Septim for you, child. But only if you can tell me one thing. Do you know of an Argonian by the name of Sees-Through-Dusk?"

The boy scrunched up his face.

"I know this name, _sera._ From the East Empire Company?"

"I don't doubt it. Where is he?"

The boy kicked at a rock on the ground, not making eye contact.

"Well..." he mumbled hesitantly, staring at his bare feet. "He _was_ staying at the Three Scamps Cornerclub, but that place..."

The boy trailed off, shaking his head vigorously. He didn't want to say any more. It was as if he feared punishment if he revealed such information. Some very powerful people must have been behind this.

Nils had enough to go from though, and tossed a Septim at the urchin, receiving a bundle of purple willow flowers.

He stared at them and sighed. He couldn't bring himself to toss the flowers aside, but now he had one more useless thing to carry. Gripping the bunch of flowers in his right hand, he strode on.

* * *

 **Suran, Three Scamps Cornerclub.**

The Three Scamps was a hidden cornerclub in a two story building facing the water. Conveniently out of the way to facilitate any shady dealings, and close enough to the water that anyone could be snatched away into the night. It was dusk by the time Nils actually found the place, and the town was alight with the glow of paper lanterns. It felt surreal to be here, so different from anything in Cyrodiil. He opened the door and immediately garnered the unwanted attention of two rather intimidating (and rather intimate, with each other, before he walked in) male orcs and a one-eyed Dunmer at the counter. The innkeeper wore an eye patch, though he often scratched at it.

"Sees-Through-Dusk. Argonian. I believe he may have stayed here?"

The one-eyed Dunmer was chewing on a hackle-lo leaf, seemingly disinterested with everything going on around him, even this outlander asking about one of his guests. He nodded, leaning back against the counter in a lackadaisical manner, not seeming to give any care to the wobbling of plates and glasses that his back had disturbed.

"Ten drakes if you want to rent the room. Haven't had time to clean it out yet, if'n you don't mind that mess. Looks like he left in a hurry this morning."

His remaining eye glanced to the side, and despite the man's seemingly relaxed attitude Nils immediately knew he was concealing information.

"I'll take it." he said, handing over the money. He wasn't about to interrogate the bartender for any more information and draw any more attention to himself with all of these people around who were clearly better armed than he was.

The Dunmer spat the leaf out in a spittoon and handed him a key from the wall.

The innkeep was not exaggerating; the room looked as though one of Hircine's werewolves had been through it. The sheets were pulled off the bed, a chair overturned, various shards of porcelain from a shattered bowl. He felt a draft. The window was open, and looking out Nils had a clear view of the lake which lead out into the sea. What happened here? Caius said that Sees-Through-Dusk would have been here for the rest of the month of Last Seed.

He fumbled for the lantern in his pack and upon lighting it, he was face-to-face with a yellow-eyed Khajiit.

"You – " Nils shouted, placing the lantern on the nightstand and drawing his pitiful sword.

The Khajiit only laughed with mirth. "Ah, look at that serious face. Do you truly think you can harm this one with a toy?"

The Khajiit laughed. With a flick of his wrist Nils spun the sword around in his hand and hit the Khajiit square in the forehead with the pommel of his sword. The cat-man had been caught off guard and fell backwards from the force of the blow. Nils tackled him now, keeping him pinned down as he brought his face very close to the Khajiit's.

"Where is Sees-Through-Dusk?"

"Gone, J'zhirr knows only this. Long gone by now. But... this one can smell your breath. Have you been eating raw ash yams?"

Again the Khajiit laughed. Nils was less than amused.

"J'zhirr, is that your name? Where did he go?"

"This, J'zhirr does not know. J'zhirr may guess, but he may be wrong."  
"Guess, J'zhirr."

"Sadrith Mora. Slave traders from House Telvanni. Sees-Through-Dusk was a free lizard-man, but when one has fur or scales, it is not hard for important people to find one offensive. With one's clothes stripped and a bracelet clapped on, none can tell the difference. You are an outlander, you do not know these things, but to J'zhirr it is plain."

Even the Khajiit called him an outlander.

Nils loosened his grip on J'zhirr, who nimbly jumped back up on two feet in one swift movement, preening himself. Nils wondered why the Khajiit never retaliated, despite the glass dagger at his belt. Either he seemed to hold no hard feelings against Nils for pinning him down, or he did not even see him as a threat.

"This practice is commonplace? And people _allow_ this?"

"This one has not enough fingers to count how many slaves he has met who had fallen to this fate. Ah – something the slavers missed."  
The Khajiit with his excellent night vision had spotted a small coin on the wooden floor. He bent down to pick it up, holding it up to the lantern.

"Dwarven?" asked Nils.

"J'zhirr's gift to the outlander, then. Guards are less forgiving to plunderers than Skooma dealers, only because the Empire wants to control it." The Khajiit flipped the coin towards Nils, who caught it between two fingers. "And J'zhirr is unfortunately no longer in the service of the Empire, for this one has found a better opportunity."

"Are you heading to Sadrith Mora?"

"What if this one is?"

"You have a ship?"

"Captain Lark has this."

"Can you take me to Captain Lark?"

"Tomorrow. We will see. J'zhirr makes no promises. Perhaps your intentions are the same as ours. J'zhirr believes you may be useful to our cause. But only Captain Lark will tell. In the meantime, J'zhirr suggests you find a weapon not meant for a cub..."

"And yet I was able to disable you with it."

"J'zhirr was caught off guard. This will not happen again."

* * *

 **Suran, Tribunal Temple.**

The mysterious woman he met at the Shrine had plagued his mind all night, and he knew he would never have any closure unless he could thank her, or perhaps understand a little more about her. He had also been advised by J'zhirr to go to the Temple anyways for healing potions, for their prices were considerably lower than any alchemist shop.

Nils still held the slightly wilted bundle of willow flowers the child had given him the day before. He made his way to the distinct dome-shaped temple with its various banners written with the old Daedric characters.

 _ALMSIVI WATCHES OVER YOU._

Inside it was dimly lit by candles, the air thick with incense. Two robed Dunmer and a tiny girl were knelt in prayer in front of a shrine. Indeed, he recognized the silent woman reclining on a bench, tracing words in a book with her finger. He hesitantly approached her, and she looked up. Her eyes widened slightly as if mildly surprised, but her face softened in a welcoming way.

"Is this something you can use? For potions, maybe?" he asked, hesitantly handing her the bundle of willow flowers. The woman accepted the flowers with what appeared to be a look of genuine gratitude.

Placing the flowers in her lap she lowered her hood to reveal a tight bun of glossy black hair. Not a single strand was out of place. She plucked the head of a flower and fastened it through a pin, the pale violet contrasting against her midnight hair.

"May I have a flower, Lady Alma?" asked the tiny girl, who dusted her hands of the incense she had just lit. The woman handed her two.

Alma. That was her name. No doubt named after the goddess Almalexia. That was at least a name he remembered.

"Have you come to pray, or are you only here to leer at Lady Alma?" asked an older mer defensively, crossing his arms. He was a Dunmer with wizened features and a long white beard knotted at the middle. Nils assumed he was a high priest or something. The old mer waved his staff at him. "You mustn't bother her, outlander. She is on a very important mission from the Healing Mother herself."

The Healing Mother? Did he mean Almalexia? Nils did not dare to ask out of fear of offending them even further. All he needed to know was that this Alma seemed to be an important person in the Temple, and he probably shouldn't talk to her unless he wished to raise the ire of these priests.

"No offense was intended, sir, I assure you. I was told that I could purchase a healing potion or two, for I am about to embark on a long journey."

The priest made a harrumph sound and moved over to his stone desk. He hastily began to scribble a note.

"Bring two of any of these ingredients, and one of us can make it for you. No charge. Only you pay for the ingredients."

Though the man had appeared hostile, even now his voice was rough, this was certainly an offer borne of kindness, even if it were something offered to all travelers. Perhaps the Tribunal Temple was not something to be disgusted by. He would have to learn more about their ways.

When Nils turned to walk out the door he felt the eyes of all the inhabitants of the small temple on his back.

"Oh, but he's handsome... for a halfling," he overheard a young woman sighing to Alma.

Nils felt heat rising to his face and he quickened his pace.

He inherited from his Imperial father soft dark hair and high cheekbones, and quite a few women in Cheydinhal did find him very handsome, though in his foolish youth he had wasted his time pursuing only Savaarie, the haughty young Altmer from the Mages Guild. He wondered what Savaarie was doing now... brilliant elf was probably guild steward by now.

Did Savaarie know he was innocent? Did it even matter at this point? His old life was a thing of the past. He could forget seeing his mother, Savaarie, Iluna, Tacitus, and all of his other friends. He could forget the visits to the chapel with his father, working with his mother in the herb garden, candlelit debate at the dinner table on Imperial policy with Tacitus, Savaarie hiding her blush by burying her face into a dusty textbook as she scolded him for disturbing her studies, his fearless sister Iluna sparring with the Orcs at the Fighters Guild. All of them he wished to burn from his mind, but he couldn't. These were the warm memories that kept him sane in prison, and would keep him going now at a chance of being able to see them again.

And he realized with conviction that he did not need to forget about them. He did not need to forget about his mother's Dunmer lullabies and the ethereal weapons Savaarie could conjure, how they sparkled when colliding with his own steel in a spar.

For this he had to find this Sees-Through-Dusk. Caius said that he had answers he was looking for. Were these the answers Caius was looking for? Or... what the Emperor himself was looking for?

Who knew. Being from Cyrodiil, Nils knew how the Empire worked, and he knew that he was only a pawn.  
But if it could get him closer to home, he would have to oblige them.


	3. Meeting Captain Lark

**Ebonheart.**

Nils knew he would be able to find a proper weapon at Ebonheart, the Imperial capital of Vvardenfell. Though J'zhirr urged him along as they walked the bridges to the castle square, he finally felt at least some semblance of familiarity at the terracotta roof tiles of the small houses inside the walls, the fortified castle with its stone battlements. The patrolling guards of the Imperial Legion were a familiar sight as well. A distasteful sight, but still familiar. Nils was more comfortable here than in the utterly foreign cities of Balmora and Suran with their tamed giant insects and the intimidating cracking sounds of bonemold armor as the guards walked by.

The marketplace at Dragon Square was bustling with people. The Imperial smith and his weaponry were a welcome sight, and Nils spent half of an hour examining his wares while J'zhirr wove in and out of the crowd. After engaging in superficial conversation Nils discovered that the smith's name was Sextus, and his son was a priest in the small chapel of the Divines in the castle.

Finally, after much forethought, Nils made his selection. He held up a longsword forged in Imperial steel. The blade was good quality, its steel without impurities, though it was nothing out of the ordinary. Practical yet effective. Thousands of men and women fighting in the Imperial Legion in Cyrodiil wielded such a sword, with minor variations. Nils had one very similar himself, before his arrest.

"This is indeed a fine blade. What are you asking for this?"

"Four hundred and thirty septims, plus sixty more for taxes and handling."

The blacksmith gave this laughably inflated price without any trace of humor in his voice.

"That's nearly five hundred," Nils declared incredulously.

"Taxes, you see. All the steel you see here is imported. I'm hardly making a profit as it is."

"Oh? For the same model that is standard issue for all the guards not only here in Ebonheart, but in the Imperial City as well? Either your prices are overblown, or I must grow concerned with the Emperor's spending habits. I'd hate to see the Empire fall because of such dreadful mismanagement of finances."

"A Dunmer from Cyrodiil? That is an oddity. What did you say your name was again?"

"Half-Dunmer, in fact. But indeed, I am from Cyrodiil. My name is Nilseth. Yes, that is a Dunmer first name. You appear disappointed. Did you want my family name? Unfortunately, I do not wish to divulge such information to a hypocrite who wears the amulet of the hard-working Zenithar and deigns to cheat a traveler of his gold."

The mention of one of the Nine Divines seemed to soften the smith. With a coal-streaked hand he instinctively reached for the amulet around his neck.

"My apologies if I have offended you. I believe we must have got off on the wrong page. In order to make amends, I give you a new offer. Three hundred, and not a Drake less."

This price was slightly better, but still overpriced. Nils was not impressed.

"Three hundred? If I were looking to spend that amount of gold I might as well find an obsidian smith in Vivec to craft me a broadsword! I'll tell you what, Sextus. I've served in the Legion before and I know what the captain would give you for this blade. About ninety drakes, but only because he purchases in bulk. Am I incorrect? Thus, I suspect this item's normal value to be well below two hundred Septims, perhaps around... One hundred and twenty? That covers the mandatory ten drakes in the customs tax, plus ten drakes for shipping, and another extra ten drakes for your pocket. That seems fair, doesn't it?"

Sextus wordlessly took the blade from Nils' hand and placed it in a leather sheath, grumbling something about how Mara would be pleased for his act of charity. Nils counted out the proper amount of gold for the merchant and thanked him for his time. As he turned to leave, the smith walked from behind the counter, clapping a hand on Nils' shoulder.

"Never did tell me your family name," he said.

Nils remembered Imperial politeness before he remembered that he needed to keep a low profile, and answered immediately.

"Valericus. And yours?"

"Plutonius. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Nilseth Valericus." He held out his hand to shake. Nils accepted.

"Likewise, Sextus Plutonius. May Akatosh guide you."

Had he just made a huge mistake?

It wasn't like his father was very famous outside of Cheydinhal, or anyone would know of a prisoner being held for conspiracy in the dungeons. Still, he did notice a change in the smith's demeanor, and realized he ought to be more careful from now on.

When he brusquely made his way back into the crowd, J'zhirr circled him with congratulations.

"You speak the Imperial tongue well."

"Perhaps because part of me is still Imperial," he said. "Even if it's just my tongue."

At least his upbringing could prove useful when speaking with the guards here. He knew how they operated, and he knew how to haggle with them. Dunmer on the other hand were a lot more difficult for him to deal with.

"Quiet. J'zhirr hears something."

Nils craned his neck to listen. J'zhirr turned him around to face a wall, and pretended to be in deep conversation with him as they listened to a briefing between a guard and his superior. They only heard snippets of dialogue over the din of the city.

"Fugitive spotted in Dragon Square. . . be discrete. . . according to our reports . . . father was. . . he may be cooperative."

Nils pulled his hood over his head. Thankfully he was with J'zhirr, who knew these streets like the back of his claw. They walked briskly down a narrow alleyway between two castle walls. At the exit, a guard on alert was patrolling the square. J'zhirr motioned with a hand up the castle walls.

" _Climb_ that?" Nils asked hesitantly. "I'm not a cat,"

"There are footholds at the bottom. Only need to make it halfway. J'zhirr will pull you up," the Khajiit promised. Nils only saw a flash of orange fur as the feline effortlessly scaled up the wall. Perched on top of the battlements on all fours, he urged Nils to climb up.

Nils secured his foot in the hole at the bottom, then swung his arm upwards to grab a loose rock jutting out. He placed his other foot and slowly began to pull himself up, but his right foot slipped.

"Wait. I think I heard something. Over there!"

A guard had spotted him from far away and was hurrying through the narrow space, his heavy armor forcing him to turn sidewise as he side-stepped towards them.

Nils positioned his body so that his back and the palms of his hands were against one of the walls and his feet against the other, and he climbed up, much to the amusement of J'zhirr.

"You look like an overturned mudcrab," he remarked, pulling him up to the battlements just before the guard could reach them.

"Halt! In the name of the Emperor, I command you to halt!"

The Khajiit hissed at the guard, then laughed, before quickly lowering himself down to the other side of the castle walls. Nils followed suit. They were now outside of the city walls, and could hear the shouting of guards over the battlements.

"They're going to flank us. Where do we go now?" he asked. But J'zhirr took his arm and started running. They waded across the shallow waters, waiting under the bridge while many pairs of steel boots bounded across. J'zhirr led him to the other side, to a massive old tree. The Khajiit climbed it with the same ease as any feline would, while Nils took significantly longer. Nils' heart skipped a beat as he followed J'zhirr in leaping across to the battlements, just barely catching the crenelations. Hanging from the walls, J'zhirr had to pull him up yet again.  
Right against the walls was a two-story building, the opened second story window easily accessible. J'zhirr climbed inside, followed by Nils.

 **Ebonheart, Dragon's Pride Inn.**

They emerged inside a neat yet modest room of an Inn with an undoubtedly Imperial style. It was slightly better furnished than the stark cornerclubs in Balmora and Suran and even included a desk with a chair. Nils placed a hand against the wall to catch his breath, his breathing heavy.

A dark-skinned Redguard leaned against the wall, his expression never changing as if he expected them. He had a long scar running down his eye and his coarse hair was done in several gathered braids. His face was unshaven, though it seemed to add a kind of rugged appeal. Nils spotted a scimitar sheathed at the Redguard's waist.

"You've attracted quite some attention to yourself since you've arrived in Ebonheart... and I do not mean that in a good way, Nilseth Valericus."

His voice was calm, like water. He spoke quietly, but with such commanding authority that Nils and J'zhirr were forced to remain silent and listen.

"Well done, J'zhirr. Were you spotted together?"

"Of course not." Then, after remembering the single guard, the Khajiit smiled sheepishly. "Well, perhaps once. This one believes he did not recognize J'zhirr's face."

"You're lucky that all Khajiit look the same to them. Still, try not to refer to yourself in third person when they confront you, like last time."

"J'zhirr makes his apologies – Err – _This one_ makes his apologies."

The Redguard paced the room, gesturing Nils over to the desk. On the desk was a slim file, reading _"Nilseth Valericus, Dossier"_ in a neat script.

Of course. The Imperials were famous for their careful records. No wonder someone at least vaguely recognized his name.

"Read it if you'd like." said the Redguard, in that collected, deep voice.

There were only two crisp sheets of parchment in the file. The first page had been copied from his prison intake records six years ago onto a new sheet of parchment. It included meticulous description of his physical appearance, from hair and eye color to height, weight, and arm length. Nils turned to the second page, which was dated quite recently.

 _Memorandum, 29 Sun's Height, 3E 427._

 _Nilseth Valericus, imprisoned on charges of accessory to murder, has recently escaped from the Imperial City prison. Due to a clerical error at the Census and Excise office in Seyda Neen, he is free to roam Vvardenfell. Reports indicate that subject is likely nonviolent and even cooperative. Detain; do not question. If found, contact Varus Vantinius immediately. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES IS THIS MAN TO BE KILLED._

 _Sellus Gravius_

 _Knight Errant of the Imperial Legion._

Nils did not know whether to be impressed or disturbed with the cold efficiency of the Blades. It left a bad taste in his mouth that they were using the Legion to ensure he was carrying out his task. Was he not a free man? What would happen if they stopped him? Nils didn't want to answer any of their questions. Even if the memorandum seemed to imply that he wasn't someone to be arrested, Nils did not like the Legion's involvement at all.

The Redguard finally interrupted his thoughts.

"You are a fugitive. But an important fugitive. Someone the Empire wants, perhaps even needs. Maybe you know something that they don't. A mystery. I like interesting people, and desperate men even more. Thank you for bringing him to me, J'zhirr."

Nils kept his guard up. Was this Redguard about to attempt to blackmail him? It wasn't too late to return to Balmora, to explain to Caius the situation.

But that would involve deferring to the Legion, having to

"Ah, but forgive me. I have not yet introduced myself. Keevan Lark, captain of the _Nereid's Wrath_."

"A pleasure. You already know my name, so I don't suppose there is any need to introduce myself."  
He spoke these guarded words with politeness through gritted teeth.

Keevan laughed.

"Relax. I have a proposition to make to you. J'zhirr, have you told him of the Twin Lamps?"

"J'zhirr has not. This one believes he is willing, but J'zhirr awaited your judgment. He knew Sees-Through-Dusk, and wishes to go to Sadrith Mora."

Keevan turned back to Nils, crossing his arms. He looked the man up and down, as though inspecting the quality of a product.

"J'zhirr is a good judge of character. If he trusts you, I will do the same. J'zhirr is a founding member of the Twin Lamps, a clandestine group dedicated to eradicating slavery in Morrowind. They operate in secret, and only use violence when absolutely necessary. That's where I come in. My stake in this is different, but the Twin Lamps need me just as much as I need them. On paper I work for the East Empire Company. I make a modest living by ferrying product from one Imperial settlement to another. On the side, I smuggle certain products that the Empire believes should be illegal. Moon Sugar, in both its raw form and refined into Skooma. Our best customers for these products have always been Khajiit, but as more and more of them are being rounded up as slaves, I find my profits have been dropping. Which is why I enlisted the help of the Twin Lamps, see?"

Nils nodded slowly. It seemed an unstable alliance at best, but he thought he understood.

"And Sees-Through-Dusk? You knew him?" Nils asked.

"Aye. Was one of my best connections. Seems someone who doesn't like me caught wind of this. Our best leads point to Sadrith Mora, and I needed to make a drop there anyways."

"I have gold. I can pay you to take me along."  
Captain Lark let out a jovial laugh.

"The Nereid's Wrath is not a passenger ship, Nils. I don't need whatever small amount of gold you can offer me for transport. You'd be better off asking the Bosmer with her sloop at the docks. Even then, Sadrith Mora isn't a city you can just walk into. It's not like the rest of Vvardenfell. You're an outlander; you know nothing of the Telvanni. But we can help you. What I need is your assistance. I won't ask questions about why you're on the run from the Empire. But I see you have a sword, and I assume you know how to use it."

"I do, though unfortunately I am out of practice. Just got off the prison boat, see?"

"Then spar with me on the ship. We will have plenty of time for that."

Nils thought upon this offer, weighed his other options (which were either nonexistent or unfavorable) and knew that this was his best opportunity.

"Very well. I accept your proposition, Captain Lark."

He held out his hand to shake. Keevan accepted with a firm grip and a sly smile.

Again, it was not as if he had much of a choice. So he might have to liberate a few slaves, and help to protect an illegal cargo. He wasn't exactly keen on the idea of killing people for the sake of the business, but anyone who claimed another thinking, feeling being as property deserved to be in a lot of pain. Perhaps this arrangement would be beneficial to him in the end.

"Ah, but one more question, before I show you to my ship. This is merely curiosity. How is it that you are acquainted with Sees-Through-Dusk? Collecting on a debt? Or does he purchase Dwemer artifacts from you?"

Nils knew that the truth was so absurd there was no way Captain Lark would believe him.

"Uriel Septim wanted me to ask him some questions." he answered stiffly.

Keevan laughed at Nils' dry delivery.

"Right, and I'm the high king of Skyrim. Let's get moving, before the guards produce a warrant to get their noses into my ship. J'zhirr, return this dossier to their offices and meet us back at the Wrath."

"Yes, Captain."

J'zhirr disappeared into the shadows as Khajiit were wont to do.

 **Ebonheart, Docks.**

As they walked in the direction of the nearby docks, evading the patrolling guards, Nils wondered what he had just gotten himself into. Other than petty offenses committed as a boy, he had never been involved in any serious crimes. His father being captain of Cheydinhal's guard and serving under the watch himself rid him of that desire.

Now he was involved in both a smuggling ring and a radical group of vigilantes with just one handshake. Yet he did not feel an ounce of guilt. As much as he wanted to believe he still abided by a code of honor instilled in him by the Imperial Legion, spending six years in prison under false charges rid him of most of his loyalty to the Legion, seeing as they were partly responsible for his framing. He would have to see how this would play out. Perhaps life as a fugitive wouldn't be so bad. Living outside of the confines of the law (and the Emperor's grasp) was beginning to appeal to him more than ever.

Still, he supposed he ought to report back to Caius after he found out what happened to Sees-Through-Dusk. The Legion he could handle. But he didn't want to mess with the Blades.

Other than a single guard questioning a Bosmer woman relentlessly and a tired looking man in front of the warehouse for the East Empire Company, the docks were surprisingly clear of patrols.

"Looks like they're not letting anyone out. Lucky I have the right papers and a very important cargo," Keevan said, pulling a folded document out of his pocket. "No way they'd keep me here when the Legion at Wolverine Hall have been out of Cyrodiilic brandy. The officers here know the importance of morale. It's no wonder they run out of drink, when they have to be stationed in that outpost. You'll soon see why I say that."

Beside the tiny sloop was a single-masted cutter ship, lithe enough to navigate rocky waters yet large enough to carry a small cargo. He suddenly felt an odd tightness in his chest when he saw a familiar robed figure from behind. Was it Alma?

 _Couldn't be._

She was wearing the same dark green robes and had her slim hourglass outline. She was standing at the docks close by the sloop and waited patiently until she was noticed by the guard and the Bosmer. She made a few motions with her hands, pointing to the boat. Nils turned around so that his back was facing the guard, but he was still able to hear the conversation.

"My apologies, sister. By order of Captain Vantinius no passenger ships are to leave the docks. You are welcome to stay here. Our charitable healers at Ebonheart's chapel of the Divines would be happy to provide free shelter despite your... provincial beliefs. Keep in mind that without proper documentation, you will not be allowed to leave Ebonheart until further notice. A dangerous fugitive has been spotted and the drawbridges have been lifted to prevent his escape. Perhaps you will learn a thing or two by staying at the chapel. It is never too late for the Nine to redeem your soul. Akatosh forgives all who give themselves to the Divines."

Nils disliked the condescending tone of the guard. How different it was from the reverence she was treated with by the Dunmer of the Temple. But Alma only bowed and walked away. There was something oddly fascinating about the icy grace with which she carried herself.

Before they crossed the gangplank to the ship, Nils watched Alma make her way to the direction of the inn they had just come from. Nils pointed her out to Keevan. They kept their voices low.

"I know her. Can we take her along?" Nils asked suddenly.

"I told you this wasn't a passenger ship."

"I know. But she would be useful. She is respected by the Tribunal Temple. Can make potions for us too."

"Can we trust her?"

Nils shrugged. He didn't know much about her.

"She's taken a vow of silence," he said. "So it isn't as if she can tell anyone. Besides, do you think she has any love for the Empire if they talk like _that_ to her all the time?"

Keevan sighed, nodding slowly in his assent. "Be quick," he said, patting him on the back.

Nils made his way to Alma, whose symmetrical face was unmoving in deep contemplation. She did not even look up until he was directly in front of her. Her red eyes widened in recognition, her dark lips twisting into that curious smile that Nils was still unable to decipher. He bowed slightly, not forgetting his manners in front of a lady revered by the Temple.

"Alma. It is good to see you again. I heard what the guard said to you, and I see the predicament you are in. My friend over there, the Redguard, he has the only ship in Ebonheart that is allowed to leave port. We're leaving very soon, heading to Sadrith Mora. Maybe it isn't exactly where you wanted to go, but I'm sure you'd prefer it to being 'saved' by the Nine Divines."

Alma placed a finger on her chin in mock contemplation, a look of mild amusement on her face from Nils' sarcastic line. The way she smiled made Nils' chest feel as though it were clenched even tighter for some reason. Eventually she nodded her assent, and Nils offered his arm. With her observant almond-shaped eyes she stared at his proffered arm, the gesture reeking of Imperial chivalry, but she accepted it. Nils waited until both guards had their heads turned before quickly leading her unseen across the gangplank and onto the _Nereid's Wrath._ The so-called fugitive and the priestess clambered below deck just before a squadron of guards marched into the docks _._


	4. The Nereid's Wrath

**Ebonheart, on board the Nereid's Wrath.**

Nils and Alma had just made it to the cargo hold when they heard someone trying to get their attention.

"In here."

The voice came from a muscular Nordic woman, taller than Nils. Her rust-colored hair was pulled up in a high ponytail. Though it was dark in the cargo hold, a lantern allowed him to see her features, or at least the right side of her. With one side of her face shrouded in darkness, she appeared to be quite pretty despite her intimidating size, with large blue eyes and distinct features, but when she stepped closer into the light, using an axe to pry open a large shipping crate, Nils saw the other side. The entire left half of her face was badly scarred from a severe burn. It was an old wound, having healed over the best it possibly could, but it was still red and angry, disfiguring that entire side of her face. By the misalignment of her left eye Nils could tell it was made of painted glass, one of good craftsmanship too.

"Quick, lest the guards chop off your heads and use them to decorate the battlements," the woman commanded, her dry voice only slightly accentuated by the lilting of her faint Skyrim accent. She kicked at the empty coffin-sized box she had just opened, pointing at it with the hand still holding her battle-axe.

"In."

"Excuse me. Who are you?" Nils asked, slightly unsettled that this intimidating woman was demanding he jump into a wooden crate before he knew her name.

The woman tilted her head at him, her good eye narrowing.

"I'm Lark's first mate. All you need to know." She pointed to Nils. "You go in first. Lay down nice and flat. Your lady friend will climb in after. On top of you. Then I close the lid. Anything else you need explained?"

When Nils did not answer in a half-second, she pushed him forward despite the terrifying implications of this prospect.

"But -" Nils protested, almost certain that this must violate some vow of modesty or something that Alma had taken. Yet Nils was not keen on talking back to a Nord wielding a battle-axe and so he lowered himself into the crate, lying down on his back with his arms to his sides. To his astonishment the priestess seemed to have no objections to laying over him, that enigmatic smile flashing on her lips for just a moment. Nils closed his eyes but he could still feel her soft breath on his face and the warmth of her body pressing against his.

"S-sorry about this," he muttered, feeling his heart pounding. Or was that Alma's?

The brusque Nord woman laid a quilt over them and placed a few bottles of brandy inside before replacing the top and hammering it into place.

"You two can breathe in there, yes?" The first emotion that Nils detected in the Nord's voice was humor, to his mild distaste.

"Yes... your obvious concern is appreciated."

Nils opened his eyes to see Alma's bright red eyes opened in that cryptic stare. She was biting her lower lip, though her expression still appeared amused, as if this were some kind of thrilling adventure. She smelled of temple incense and... willow flowers. After about a minute they could hear armored boots clamoring above deck. The Legion must have invited themselves aboard. It _was_ exciting, in a strange sort of way. He heard several voices but could discern no words until they moved below deck. Nils could feel Alma trembling. He tried not to think about the slender curve of her waist, the hourglass shape that she hid under her robes. His face felt like it was on fire. He wanted this to be over already.

"I appreciate what you do for our city, gentlemen, but I must remind you that you are unable to search my ship by force without obtaining a warrant first, seeing as this ship is an officially sanctioned vessel of the East Empire Company. Check the registry if you'd like. Of course, I will oblige you gentlemen, seeing as I have nothing to hide and I do not wish to subject you to the mess of paperwork that comes with obtaining a warrant under our unfortunate bureaucracy. Walde, go ahead and show them the shipment."

This was Keevan speaking, an amiable tone put on for the guards. Nils forced himself to concentrate on the conversation. Something, anything other than the intensity of the woman's stare.

Walde. That was the Nord woman's name. He focused on the sound of wood splintering as Walde pried open a crate.

"Ah, yes. The spirits. For the troops at Wolverine Hall, you were saying?" came the booming voice of an Imperial guard.

"Yes, sir. Heard there was a supply issue over there. Divines know they could use it. Have to give them credit for staying in Sadrith Mora. The Telvanni are a hostile lot."

Keevan had inserted the right amount of praise towards the Legion in his speech without sounding overly unctuous. Nils could tell he had been doing this for a long time.

"Indeed they are, Lark. Well, I mustn't keep you too long, else I'll have a sore ear from General Lavinne if she catches wind I delayed her shipment any longer."

"Yes, Victoria has been known to hold a mighty grudge, hasn't she?"

"You don't know half of it," murmured the guard. There was a rustling of papers being passed from one hand to another. "Hmm, well, your documents check out, but I'd still like to see the rest of the ship."

"And I will be happy to oblige. Right this way, sir."

"I wanted to ask you, Captain Lark... did you call her Victoria? Am I to understand you are on a first name basis with General Lavinne?"

But Nils would not get to hear of Keevan's familiarity with the Imperial general, for their voices faded as the clanking iron footsteps were heard ascending the stairs.

He felt the steady rising and falling as Alma breathed in and out. In and out. It had a calming effect on him. Eventually his breathing matched hers.

Time oozed slowly. Finally, after an uncomfortable half hour which felt like an eternity, the heavy footsteps were gone and Keevan returned to the cargo hold.

"All clear?" he heard Walde say. Her leather boots thumped to the ground as she hopped off from the crate she had perched on.

"All clear. Thank you, Walde. Clever idea and impeccable timing."

"Anytime, sir," she answered.

Nils felt his heart jump when he saw the splinters flying as Walde wedged her trusty axe into the box. The lid came off, and he let out a long sigh of relief.

Alma sat up first, smoothing out her robes before finally climbing out completely. She appeared so calm and collected, despite having just been trapped in a crate and pressed against a man she hardly knew for half of an hour. Nils stood up a bit too quickly and was hit with a wave of dizziness. He gripped a nearby wooden post to keep his balance.

"I'll take us out to sea, then." said Keevan, running a hand through his rough hair, clearly relieved. The guards finding two stowaways would have been the least of his concerns.

"And J'zhirr?" asked Walde rather quickly.

"Too many guards for him to sneak aboard now, or for us to wait any longer. He knows this. He'll find his way to that cove along the coast. We ought to call it 'Cave of the Lucky Cat' by now, from all the times we've had to pick him up from there."

He then turned to Alma and Nils.

"Welcome to the Nereid's Wrath! If you start to feel a little sick, try to keep it away from the merchandise."

Keevan's laughter echoed as he made his way back up the steep steps.

Now they were left alone with the rather terse Nord woman whose name he now knew as Walde.

Nils tried to strike up conversation, though he could already tell it was going to be a futile effort.

"The name is Nils, by the way. Pleasure to meet you, Walde. And, well, thanks for helping us. I suppose I owe you one."

The Nord woman only grunted in acknowledgment, waving a hand away at his supposition. She took a hammer from the wall and began to pound a nail into the crate she had to open for the guards.

Though he knew Walde did not seem interested at all, Nils gestured towards his companion, speaking loud enough to be heard over the sound of her hammering.

"This is Alma. She doesn't talk much. Or at all, really."

"Sure," Walde answered crisply, not looking up from her work.

* * *

 **Nereid's Wrath, Ascadian Isles Region**

When the ship had set full sail after making a quick stop to a certain cove to pick up a certain cat, Keevan visited Nils below deck. It was nearly dusk, or so he could tell by the small porthole windows. Though out of mild embarrassment he initially avoided Alma, she ended up sitting beside him on the shipping crates, immersed in her own book. If there was one good thing about her vow of silence, it was that she wouldn't be able to tease him about what had just happened in the crate. He knew she had been thinking about it, and found her occasional coy smiles unsettling, perplexing. J'zhirr bounced in and out from time to ask for help with manning the sails, but when the Redguard entered Nils immediately jumped to his feet.

"With Walde at the helm we can get to work. I have not forgotten my promise. Shall we?"

Nils was eager to follow him above deck.

Even Alma put away her book; a thick and undoubtedly fascinating tome entitled _The 36 Lessons of Vivec._

Keevan disappeared into his quarters and returned seconds later, holding out two weighted practice swords. He tossed one to Nils, who caught it in his left hand.

Nils closed his fingers around the hilt, exploring the length and weight of the wooden sword by flourishing it a few times, striking at the air.

Keevan offered only as much patience as he could before he flew at Nils unexpectedly. Nils immediately raised his sword to deflect his initial slash, his feet bouncing immediately into the proper defensive stance. Not even six years of prison would make him forget the long hours of training hammered into him by the Legion. He increased his distance yet kept himself grounded, steadily blocking each attack as they came at him. He was beginning to understand Keevan's fighting style. Quick, aggressive, feinting. Nils was the opposite, relying on counters and parries.

"Strike at me! Or are you not enough of a man?" Keevan shouted at him. Nils narrowly dodged a brutal thrust.

He stood his ground, understanding a taunt when he heard it, an attempt at distraction. Keevan wanted to goad him into an offensive maneuver to possibly blow a hole through his steady defense.

But Nils continued to dodge the flurry of attacks. At one point Keevan feigned losing his balance, but Nils could see the deception in his feet, how he never backed from his aggressive stance.

Keevan was right-handed, which gave Nils an edge over him, and he exploited this advantage after one last parry. Nils swore he heard the faint sound of cracking when the wood smacked together. Rather than his normal tactic of maintaining a defensive stance, Nils immediately changed to the offensive and followed through his parry with a riposte, slashing at Keevan's unprotected left side.

Keevan lost his balance and tumbled to the deck, but when Nils moved closer to pin him down for good Keevan rolled over on his back and kicked Nils square in the chest. His sword clattered to the ground.

Both men were bruised, laying on their backs, struggling to catch their breath.

Nils stared up at the sky. The cool blue of dusk was upon them, and the moons beginning to rise. In the distance he heard the shriek of a cliff racer. Nils swallowed, still breathing heavily. He expected to be quite sore from all of this for a long while.

When they had both been laying on the deck long enough, Keevan laughed heartily, breaking the tension. He sat up now, stretching himself out and leaning against the aft deck. Nils sat up as well, watching him. They locked eyes for a serious moment, and then both of them laughed, Nils wiping the sheen of sweat off his brow. He moved over to sit beside him. Keevan gave his shoulder a friendly punch.

"Not bad, for someone who spent six years in prison. Try not to pick any fights with fair Walde; she won't go easy on you like I did," Keevan said, gesturing towards the bow, where Walde the Nord stood at the helm. She would not be able to hear them over the wind. By now Alma had gone back to reading her book, but she occasionally glanced up from the page, though quickly pretended to be reading it again when Nils caught her.

"'Fair' Walde?" Nils asked hesitantly, wondering if this were some kind of cruel nickname for the woman with the unfortunate facial burns.

"Oh, but don't call her that either until she's had at least two flagons of mead. And maybe, when she's had three, you can ask her about the College at Winterhold."

Nils searched his memory for Winterhold. He had heard of it before... yes... Savaarie had mentioned it once or twice, mainly speaking about how she longed to visit their impressive library. It was a school for users of magic in Skyrim, isolated from the Mages Guild though the two maintained good relations.

"She's... a _mage_?" he asked incredulously, imagining the rather brutish Nord with her battle-axe and fearsome scars seated at a desk, crushing nightshade petals and moth wings with a mortar and pestle. Keevan laughed again, as if he were seeing the same image that Nils pictured in his head.

"As I told you, three flagons of mead. Then maybe... just _maybe_ , she'll tell you. Walde knows the stars better'n any of us, that's one useful thing they taught her. Reason why I let her navigate most times."

"How did she become your first mate?"

"Ah, but that is a story for us to tell together. It has to do with a lost shipwreck, a Daedric cult, and a glass eye."


	5. Disturbing Dreams: Alma

**Somewhere underground...**

 _The man in the golden mask is leading her down a flight of stairs._

 _Alma follows him to a grand hall of bronze and steam. She hears harp music, but it all sounds wrong. It reminds her of a children's song she often heard at the orphanage, only it is in the wrong key and much too slow._

 _There is a long table set out with a feast, but the food is all rotten and crawling with maggots. There are several figures sitting at the table but they do not move. Their faces are shadowy and distorted._

 _The man in the golden mask grabs her forcefully by the arm. His fingers burn her flesh. Alma tries to cry out but her lips are sewn shut._

" _Do you dance, my lady?"_

 _Before Alma can respond she is swept onto the floor, her arms and legs moving on their own accord in a painfully slow waltz._

 _The other guests around them appear more like corpses, posed as if dancing but unmoving._

" _They are all asleep, see, waiting for my return. The Tribunal has tied strings to your back and makes you dance and sing as they please. You have been thinking upon what she has told you to do. Lady of Mercy becomes Lady of Murder! Ha! How very fitting! Turn your eyes from their corruption and deceit. Rise, my child! Come to Red Mountain and stand by my side as we purge Resdayn of the TRUE blight!"_

* * *

 **On board the Nereid's Wrath, Azura's Coast Region.**

Alma sat up straight, her breath coming out in short, panicked gasps.

Another dream. Another nightmare. Nearly every night she spent in Vvardenfell Alma was visited by the man in the golden mask.

Only a phantom, she had to convince herself. A phantom of her mind. Something determined to instill doubt in her mind, but she would not allow it to break her.

Her will would remain strong. She had to, for the Lady Almalexia, for the sacred task assigned to her.

But how could she remain strong when she was plagued by nightmares and apparitions?

With a great sigh she pulled her body out of the cot. The only sound she could hear was the creaking of wood as the ship gently rocked against the waves. Her hands shook as she dressed herself, fumbling to tie the rope belt at her waist. She mouthed a short prayer she often repeated, one that brought her comfort.

 _"I carry Almalexia's light with me for I am blessed by her hand. With her mercy, I am redeemed. With her wisdom, I am enlightened. With her grace, I am absolved. The only truth is ALMSIVI."_

Yet the words only felt hollow now.

She needed to get some air.

Above deck the crisp night wind whipped at the sails. Alma's loose hair blew in all directions. She saw Walde still at the helm manning the wheel. It seemed that she and Keevan were taking shifts, as the Redguard was asleep in his quarters.

Moving port side, Alma leaned over the railings, gripping the cold iron in her hands. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths of sea air to calm her nerves.

She thought of Mournhold for whatever comfort it might bring her. She thought of the sparkling fountains with water so clear she could drink from it. She remembered how blissfully secure she felt when she was sitting against her favorite tree in the Temple courtyard, listening to the hum of cicadas as the warm afternoon breeze carried the fragrant scent of Nirthfly flowers...

Suddenly she felt arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her backwards. Alma opened her eyes with a start, blinking rapidly. Now she was no longer in Mournhold, but on the ship again. Brought back to reality. Had she almost fallen asleep over the railings?

"Careful, Alma. You almost fell over."

Nils. She heard his concerned voice, but his words sounded distant. After several seconds he released his hold on her waist, muttering some kind of apology that she could hardly hear.

"You couldn't sleep either, eh? Hope you don't mind if I join you. I know I already thanked you for healing my wounds after the spar, but you did a nice job. I'm not even sore!"

Alma crossed her arms and stared intently out at sea so that he would not see the tears welling up in her eyes at his gentle words.

"Here."

At this word Alma blinked the tears out of her eyes and turned around. Nils was holding out a piece of scrib jerky. She tilted her head, at first unsure what he meant by this gesture.

"You weren't around when J'zhirr handed out rations, so I took an extra for you."

Alma nodded politely in thanks but kept her eyes downcast as she nibbled on the tough jerky. Her entire life she had spent building a fortress of ice around herself and here he was, trying to tear it down. That irked her.

There was a long, tense moment of silence. Alma continued to look in every direction except at Nils, feeling as though she would burst into tears at any moment if she made eye contact with him again.

Misinterpreting her signals as a need for privacy, Nils scratched his head as he turned to leave.

"Sorry. You look like you could use some space. Maybe I'll see if Walde needs my help again with the sails..."

Alma bit her trembling lip. As soon as her eyes met his she could not contain it any longer. Silent tears streamed down her motionless face. She turned around again, but it was too late. She took several steps away from him and crouched, facing the aft deck, not knowing what type of spirit was possessing her.

Nils was taken aback.

"I... Alma..." he said, at a loss for words.

He moved to follow her. Alma did not move, not even when he crouched in front of her and in what seemed like an instinctive gesture combed his fingers through her windswept hair. When her head snapped up he immediately retracted his hand, though a part of Alma wished that he hadn't.

She longed to tell him about the dreams, to be able to tell _someone._ The Temple believed that dreams like these were a sign of soul sickness. Alma did not know what to believe anymore. If only she could say something...

Yet she could not break her vows, or the promise she had made.

Like in the dream, her lips were sewn shut.

"I wish you could tell me what troubles you," he said, moving to sit beside her now.

He pulled out his own half-eaten piece of scrib jerky and began to chew on it. Looking at her a moment, he smiled. "I never knew your hair was so long. You always had it up," he confessed.

It was apparent that Nils was quite used to comforting others in their sadness. Alma quickly wiped away her tears, slowly moving her tense body into a sitting position. She hugged her knees closer to her chest.

"I was born in Cyrodiil," Nils began, speaking as if attempting to distract her from her despair. "There are parts of it that I miss, and parts that I don't miss so much, but I think the food makes me miss it the most."

He chuckled, putting the rest of his jerky back in his pocket. Their eyes locked a brief moment before he continued. The way Nils looked at her without judgment, without pity made the priestess shiver.

"In Morrowind, it seems like anything you eat has to come from some horrible creature or giant insect that tries to kill you. Kagouti, Scrib, Kwama... Ah, sorry, sorry. I know you must appreciate it more than I do. I mustn't say such things."

Alma shook her head. An outlander could not be expected to grow accustomed to their food so quickly. When she had been invited to dine at the palace of Mournhold, she had a taste of Imperial food and found it bland. They cooked everything mercilessly into soft lumps so that even a toothless baby could eat it.

"In Cyrodiil, the trees bear fruit. It can be sweet and juicy, sometimes a bit sour. Lavinia and her husband had apple trees in their yard, and we would collect the ones that had already fallen to the ground."

He paused again, gazing upwards with a finger on his chin as if he had remembered something.

Despite Alma's distaste for Imperials instilled in her by the Temple, she could not help but be entranced by his earnest descriptions and fond memories from home. It did enough to distract her at least, and she needed to think about something other than the man in the golden mask who was apparently waiting for her in Red Mountain. She found herself staring at him now, waiting for him to continue. She would listen to him talk about anything, even if it was mundane.

"Apples... Ha. My sister Iluna _hated_ apples. She used to love them, but ever since she was ten she never ate a single one, not even when it was baked into a pie. There's a rather funny story behind it. Would you care to hear it?"

Alma nodded. The tears were no longer running down her face, but the dried streaks remained.

"Iluna was five years younger than me. She had a great sense of adventure, but very little common sense. Always getting herself into trouble... when she was ten she read a book of questionable veracity entitled 'Sacred Witness' and developed a fascination with the Dark Brotherhood. They were more like a fairy tale in our town, mind, aside from rumors and cautionary tales told at the fireplace to frighten us children we never knew much about the shadowy assassins. I mean, well, we always knew they _existed_ , but we didn't think they came to Cheydinhal, see?

"My sister seemed to find something romantic about it all, and decided that she was going to find them. She dressed only in black and horrified my parents with the books she managed to find about Sithis and the like.

"I assured them it was only a phase, but Iluna took it too far one day. I think a girl was teasing her in the classroom, and Iluna threatened to make the black sacrament. She was only joking, of course, but the schoolmarm overheard and marched her straight home. Mother hid her books, took away her practice sword, and sent her to bed without supper.

"Still thinking she was the victim in all of this, Iluna climbed out of her bedroom window and wandered the streets of Cheydinhal alone at dusk. A traveling caravan of actors happened to be in town. The stage was actually a large tent-like structure set up in the town square. Iluna managed to sneak behind the curtained-off section to the backstage area. She saw the most delicious-looking apple she had ever seen on the prop table, all the more appealing because she had not eaten supper. She picked it up and was about to take a bite...

"Out of nowhere, someone gripped her wrist.

'I would advise against that, child.' said the stranger, a tall man dressed in black velvet robes, his face shrouded by a hood.

When she placed the apple back on the table the man laughed darkly.

'Return to the audience, child. I suggest you watch the second act, and then decide if you truly wish to join us.'

He then patted her on the back.

'Enjoy the show...'

Before she could ask any questions he was gone. As if he had vanished into thin air.

Iluna was thrilled, for she thought that this mysterious gentleman was part of the theatre troupe. To be invited to join a traveling show! How exciting that notion was for her! She sat back down to watch the play, but in a scene during the second act, the princess gave an apple to the actor playing the heroic knight. The knight took a bite out of the apple and was about to confess his love to the princess, but he could only grab at his throat, choking, no words coming out. The audience murmured, at first not knowing if this were part of the act, but then the princess screamed when her brave knight fell to the floor, convulsing. It only took about a minute for him to stop moving, but everyone watched in silent horror. The other actors were weeping as they carried him off the stage."

Alma's eyes were wide with morbid fascination as she waited for Nils to continue his tale.

"She ran all the way home in tears, barging into my room with wild eyes. She begged me to find the books mother had hidden so that she could burn them all. As we watched the flames consume Sacred Witness, the Night Mother's Truth, and a few pamphlets she collected, she told me about her encounter that night, and the tall man with the velvet hood. And _that_ is why my sister never ate a single apple from that day onward."

Nils smiled in fond remembrance as he leaned back against the raised deck.

"I miss her, I do," he confided. "Even more than I miss the food." He laughed. Alma smiled, staring at her hands in her lap.

She was almost jealous of him to have such lovely memories of home, of family.

She didn't know anything about her family, growing up in an orphanage in Mournhold. She was not treated poorly, but she was always alone.

Of course, being selected at the age of eight to be one of Lady Almalexia's personal handmaidens had been the highest honor, but it was still a lonely existence. She gave herself completely and fully to the Tribunal; even forsaking her old name, which Almalexia now held for safekeeping. She would 'return' it to her when she achieved sainthood, which she implied would happen after completing her task. Her task. It seemed so difficult now. Vvardenfell was so dangerous. Alma knew that Almsivi watched over her, but at the same time she was afraid.

She wrapped her fingers around Nils' arm now, drawing him closer to her for the comfort that he gave her.

Yes, of course he was an outlander, and a foolish one at that, but he gave his kindness without a price, not looking for something in return. For this she felt a certain fondness blossom in her heart, something she had not felt before.

At first Nils stiffened when she had taken his arm but then he turned to look at her, his face tranquil and understanding. His eyes were the same deep magenta of the twinkling gemstones she had seen in Queen Barenziah's crown. His features were softer than any full-blooded Dunmer. Less threatening. His ash-grey complexion was smooth; not rough and worn from the harsh weather in Vvardenfell. He was as polite and keen as nobility, but also humble and kind, unlike the nobles of the great houses.

But she had to keep reminding herself he was an outlander. Maybe even still loyal to the Empire, the ones who subjugated her people and built their ugly strongholds across their sacred lands.

Then his lips parted and a single word left his mouth.

"Alma..."

The word made her shiver again, even though it was not her true name but only a name she was called. She stared into his eyes, waiting for him to continue his thought, for there was obviously more on his mind than the name she was called, but he said nothing else. Again she wanted to shout at him, force the words out of him, but she could not violate her sacred vows for anyone.

Not even for an outlander with pretty eyes.

Alma sighed, turning back out to face the sea, still holding on to his arm. Nils wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her even closer. While she did not initially flinch at this action, Alma gently untangled herself from him and stood up.

Her icy barrier had returned. Alma was grateful for this. The whirlwind of emotions she had felt back there might have been a sign of soul sickness.

Still seated, Nils looked up at her with a combination of confusion and hurt. The latter made Alma feel slight regret, for she knew he did not understand her actions. She smiled apologetically, but she knew he would be able to see the superficiality of this gesture. Then, she did something different. Something he might understand.

Eyes closed, Alma leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the forehead. It was the only way she could express her thanks non-verbally. In the light of the moons she could see the color of his face deepening to a darker shade of grey. She knew he was attracted to her. That much was obvious even before their time in the crate together. Did she think of him in the same way?

No. She only had love for the Tribunal. They were the only ones deserving of her love, and the only ones capable of love in its purest form. So it was said.

She turned and walked away.

"Good night, then," muttered Nils, still sounding bothered.

Alma stopped walking just a moment and turned her head slightly.

Even if she could speak... what would she tell him?

She continued on her way, disappearing below deck. She undressed and blew out her candle, even forgetting to recite another prayer to herself as she usually did before she went to sleep.

When she laid herself down in that musty cot, she found herself entering the most blissfully dreamless sleep she had in weeks.


	6. Moonshadow

**Somewhere in Oblivion...**

Nils smelled roses. Hundreds – no, thousands. The sweet fragrance was overpowering, though not sickeningly so. The colors in this world seemed to blend together like a watercolor painting. The sky was shimmering opaline dotted with black stars.

The grass was the color of seafoam and it blended with the lavender and turquoise flowers. A stream of a kind of mercurial substance flowed parallel to the path he was on. Though at first the liquid appeared silvery, upon closer examination he saw that it was in fact prismatic, the colors shifting.

There was no way this was part of any mortal realm. Up ahead he saw a waterfall of that same mercurial liquid, and an enormous castle made of... roses?

Nils continued along the path. Ahead of him stood a twinkling gate that Nils swore was made of diamonds. The gate opened as he approached to reveal a courtyard in front of the castle.

"Your name is written in the stars. I have been watching you for a long time, blessed foreigner."

A soothing female voice spoke to him now, coming from all directions. Nils knew it sounded familiar... he vaguely recalled a dream he had on the ship to Seyda Neen, though that memory was now hazy. It seemed like it had been centuries ago, though it was only about a week.

Nils walked through the courtyard hesitantly, carefully examining his surrounds as if expecting a Daedroth to leap out from behind a rosebush and ambush him. This was no ordinary dream. Everything in this place couldn't exist in any mortal realm, yet he somehow felt lucid enough to know that he was not merely inside of his own subconscious.

A table suddenly materialized in front of him, with a dignified woman sitting at the head. Her skin was pale and marble-like, her eyes black holes. She sat with the same regal graces of a woman from ancient nobility, and when she looked upon him he knew immediately that she could see everywhere and everything with just a glance. Nils took a step backwards.

"Do not be afraid. Sit with me."

Against his better judgment, Nils sat down. Floating candles with violet and cerulean flames illuminated the table.

There was a small porcelain cup of... _something_... set at his end of the table. Looking inside, the liquid was thick and black.

"Drink your tea," she commanded. Then, with an understanding, almost motherly smile, "Don't worry. It will only taste pleasant to the imbiber."

Nils stared at the substance hesitantly, but closed his eyes and drank it in one gulp. The strange woman was correct. It tasted like elderberry wine, but the best kind, like the vintage he had at a vineyard near Bravil eleven summers ago and still remembered the taste. At that moment he realized that the drink was enchanted to become the most pleasant drink the subject had ever tasted. The implications of this magic were incredibly powerful yet she had used for such a simple and mundane purpose. Nils thought this to be very curious.

When he placed the cup upon the table the woman stood up now. Her iridescent robes swirled and shifted like the cosmos. The woman wrapped her pale fingers around the porcelain cup and slammed it hard against the table so that it shattered into many pieces. Illusory images displayed themselves on the table.

The first vision was of a man with a golden mask. Nils felt a steady, pulsing heartbeat, the sound seeming to echo across the courtyard. But the image of the man in the golden mask was consumed by flames and Nils could no longer hear the heartbeat. Now he was looking at the barren ashlands, occupied by sparse huts. People wearing fur and cloth fought each other with spears, but soon the red ash storm consumed the land and the Ashlanders fell to their deaths.

The image shifted into a great magical wall, then to a floating rock over a golden temple. Finally he saw himself, descending into a dark chamber, hearing the heartbeat again growing louder and louder.

The visions slowly faded.

"Who are you?" Nils asked himself, not daring to address her, his voice an enraptured whisper. But the woman could hear everything that occurred in her realm, and thus she answered.

"I am Azura of the Dawn and Dusk. Yet... the questions you have should be about yourself, and not about me."

Nils was about to say something when he heard the fluttering of hundreds of wings. Looking up, the sky darkened from several bat-like humanoid creatures.

Winged twilights.

"Do not fear them. They are my servants," said Azura.

Still, Nils waited until the flock of lesser Daedra had passed before speaking again.

"What do you mean, 'blessed foreigner?' Is this some kind of joke you all like to play in your spare time?" he asked, his tone revealing signs of annoyance, as if forgetting he were speaking with a Daedric prince. He did not feel very comfortable here and wanted to leave as soon as he possibly could, unless she was going to give him some real information rather than attempt to frighten him with bizarre images.

Azura smiled, sitting down and placing her hands in her lap.

"Ah, so you do not yet know. You will know, but not yet. Soon. There are not three, but four false gods. Tread carefully among the ones wearing masks, but when you cannot fight them, obey them only in words and not spirit. The seven trials will not be completed in the order that the stars had originally set out for you. This is not critical, but curious nonetheless."

Nils truly had no idea what this woman was talking about. He had thought Sheogorath was the mad prince, not Azura. Maybe all of the Daedra were a bit mad. Three false gods... the Tribunal? But then who was the fourth? And he couldn't even begin to decipher any of the other things she had said or shown him.

"Would it be too much to ask you to explain something to me that isn't in metaphors? A hint, a clue, maybe?" Nils was grasping desperately.

"You have more questions than answers. This is expected. It is how your trial must begin, for what is a trial without strife and uncertainty? Soon you will leave my realm, but I leave you with one hint. Something in your pocket, a curious item you have all but forgotten about. It will lead you closer to the truth."

Azura placed her hand over the broken shards of porcelain on the table. The pieces floated and gathered together, fitting back into their original place. There was not even a blemish to indicate the cup had been shattered in the first place.

"Ah, but it is now dawn, and you will awaken. I will be watching you with interest."

 **On Board the Nereid's Wrath, Azura's Coast Region.**

When Nils opened his eyes he was face-to-face with a stone version of the strange woman from his dreams. She still appeared just as regal and commanding, but the stone could not accurately portray the swirling cosmos in her robes, the void that was her eyes.

A statue. Nils had seen it marked on his map of Vvardenfell, but he did not know what it meant until now.

He leaned over the railings as the ship slowly drifted past her stone effigy, staring out to sea.

Staring at him, it felt.

But Nils stared back, watching the sun rising behind her.

Even what he once would have considered a spectacularly beautiful sunrise was practically monochromatic compared to the vividly intense hues he had seen in Azura's realm. He supposed that anything would look rather drab in comparison for a long while.

Quiet footsteps approached behind him. Even the way Alma walked seemed repressed, controlled. He turned to see her standing beside him.

"I think I just had a dream about her," he said, gesturing towards the statue.

Alma narrowed her eyes at him, as if scrutinizing him in a way she had never done before. Nils found this odd, but he continued.

"Not sure what it meant. She only spoke in riddles, and gave me some kind of tea. I'd like to forget about it, really. Do you – "

But Nils cut himself off. Alma's features twisted briefly into a look of horror. After that it was gone, her face becoming an emotionless, composed mask yet again.

"I'm sorry. Did I say something..." he started, but Alma had already turned and walked away, not waiting for him to finish. "wrong..?" he mumbled the last word, cursing himself under his breath. Alma's disturbed behavior was even more confusing than anything Azura had said in his dream, but Nils wasn't going to focus on that right now.

Something in his pocket, Azura had said. Something that would lead him closer to the truth.

Nils shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out the Dwemer coin that J'zhirr practically threw at him. Indeed, he had forgotten all about it. He held it out in front of him, now examining it in better lighting than the dimly lit room at the inn. The coin was made of bronze, though the color had long oxidized into a greenish hue. Still, he could see several simple angular symbols engraved into the piece. Dwemer writing. Nils felt even further away from the truth; all of the Dwemer had disappeared centuries ago. He forced himself to drop the coin back into his pocket rather than toss it out to sea. Sure, he'd find the answer. As soon as someone found the answer to the mystery of the disappearance of the dwarves.

 **Nereid's Wrath, Zafirbel Bay.**

"... J'zhirr knows it need not be so complicated. Any Dunmer name will do. Ralyn Hlaalu. J'zhirr knows many Dunmer with the name Hlaalu."

So close to their destination now, Nils had been speaking to the others about establishing a cover identity for himself, trying to lay low from the Empire and all.

"Don't the Telvanni hate the Hlaalu?" he asked hesitantly, vaguely remembering the complicated Morrowind politics as best he could. It was more of an educated guess, as most Dunmer understandably resented House Hlaalu for its Imperial sympathies. The Telvanni especially, with their notorious dislike of change.

J'zhirr hissed. Walde laughed, holding out an upturned hand. "I told you he wouldn't fall for it," she said.

"Jekosiit," cursed the Khajiit under his breath, sliding a ten septim piece into Walde's eager palm.

Keevan had remained silent, both hands on the wheel as he skillfully navigated them through the rocky waters of Zafirbel Bay.

"Hlervu then. Ralyn Hlervu. Hlervu is also a very common name."

This name came again from J'zhirr, though at this point Nils wasn't certain if he could trust any more of the Khajiit's suggestions.

Walde had a finger on her chin, her good eye squinting as if trying to remember something.

"Don't we know a Ralyn Hlervu?" she asked.

Finally, Keevan spoke up, though he did not keep his eyes away from the sea ahead.

"Odd fellow. Morag Tong assassin from Vivec. Ordered an entire shipment of pillows once. Harpy feather pillows, from High Rock. I didn't ask."

Nils was trying not to think about what a Morag Tong assassin could possibly want with that many pillows when Walde clapped her hand on his shoulder. The Nordic woman was so strong that he nearly toppled over.

"Then it's decided! Guards won't ask questions when they know you're from the Morag Tong. No one will."

Walde seemed like she was having far too much fun with this...

"Are you certain it's a good idea for me to impersonate an assassin?" asked Nils.

"Hlervu owes us. Those pillows were a right pain to get through customs," said Keevan with finality.

But Nils had more questions about the Telvanni.

"So, if the Telvanni are so hostile towards foreigners, why is there an Imperial stronghold just outside Sadrith Mora?"

Keevan nodded, for this was a good question.

"No one really knows. I suppose it's only a minor annoyance to them for now, and it would be beneath the dignity of the great Wizard-Lords to step down from their mushroom towers to squash them."

"Mushroom towers?"

Even Keevan looked away from the helm for a moment to exchange amused glances with Walde and J'zhirr.

"You'll see," J'zhirr and Walde said in unison.


	7. Zaryth Velani

**Sadrith Mora.**

Though the pungent scent of spores hung heavy in the air, Nils had to admit that the city of Sadrith Mora was both strange and beautiful. Its bizarre, bulbous structures were completely foreign to him; different from anything he had ever seen in his life. Rather than clearing the surrounding mushroom forest to make way for progress, the Telvanni used magic to morph and expand the fungi to suit their purposes.

Nils was rather pleased with the task that the crew had given him; all he had to do was speak to Keevan's contact and notify him of the Nereid's arrival. After he completed this, he would be free to explore the city at his leisure.

Angaredhel was the Dunmer at the front desk of the Inn, and to Nils it was obvious he was only pretending to be writing something important when he walked in. He knew this tactic very well. So long as you _looked_ like you were busy, people might think you were important or something. Keevan had warned him about Angaredhel already. An opportunist, so he said. But right now the man's sharp, bony face revealed that he was utterly perturbed about something very particular...

"Afternoon, sera. Another traveler? I would offer you a bed, but unfortunately recent... _issues..."_ this word he said with utter abhorrence, "have temporarily put the Gateway Inn at an inconvenience."

The man tapped his fingers impatiently against the desk, putting away his ink and quills before standing to face Nils. Even as he spoke he seemed distracted by a particular door leading to another room. Even Nils found his eyes drifting in the direction of the oval door and occasionally he heard a great thump that sent a tremor through the entire inn, followed by a clattering sound. Nils was curious about this _issue_ that Angaredhel seemed to have, but at the same time he wasn't sure if he wanted to get involved in what sounded like a brawl in another room.

"Sorry to hear about it. Perhaps the guards..."

"No use. Already tried. I've got someone in there right now taking care of it, but it always comes back. Only thing I can offer you right now are some hospitality papers."

"Hospitality papers?" asked Nils, suddenly forgetting about the ruckus in the other room.

"Your ears do not fail you. You must have traveled far to come here. Did you not know about your rights – or lack thereof – without the proper documentation?"

Nils wasn't certain what this man was talking about, but he suspected he was attempting to con him. Angaredhel himself was altogether a rather suspicious being, being a Dunmer with an Altmer name and his attire more suitable for a syndicate boss than a humble innkeeper.

There was also the fact that he was Keevan's contact. That was suspicious enough.

"I thought you were an innkeeper. Are you also qualified to distribute valid Telvanni papers? How does one qualify?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

"Erm, yes. Master Neloth himself has designated me the official Prefect of Hospitality in Sadrith Mora. Truly, I am no innkeeper, I'm afraid the redguard woman by the stairs over there – Ery – deserves that title for her tireless work. I merely own the building, and a small percentage of its profits. Not that it does me much good, when the place is haunted and everyone stays away because of the noise... my only concern lies with the weary traveler such as you, who would not be able to find lodging elsewhere without Telvanni hospitality papers approved by a prefect. Not even at Fara's aptly-named Hole in the Wall. The only way I can ease your burden is by approving your entry into this city. All I need is some basic information, and a mere five-and-twenty septims for the processing fee."

Processing fee. Prefect of Hospitality. So Angaredhel was a Dunmer with an Altmer name, who did business like an Imperial. Nils found this oddity of a man curious indeed, but he simply shook his head at his offer.

"I've already got my papers in order, but thank you. A kind offer, but no. By the way, I believe I spotted a Nereid in the waters close to Wolverine Hall. You may want to investigate."

Angaredhel nodded slowly and mechanically, his face aghast. Nils smiled inwardly at this reaction.

His work here was finished. A very small part of him felt rather guilty for involving himself in a smuggling ring, but it was too late for any lingering sense of morality. It wasn't like he was dealing with the Camonna Tong or anything.

As Nils turned to leave, the stone door of the so-called haunted room slid open. He was already walking down the spiral stairway to the ground floor when he heard the emphatic voice of a woman who was slightly out of breath.

"There – that's the third time this week I've gotten rid of that thing, but don't be surprised when it comes back. That's no ordinary ghost, serjo Angaredhel. I told you twice before. It's a summon. There's no ectoplasm, nothing when I kill it. Poof! Vanishes. But it's back the next day! That's a conjuration spell, serjo."

Nils was waiting at the bottom of the stairway, listening to the conversation that now piqued his interest.

"That's ridiculous. Who would go through the trouble?" Angaredhel asked.

"I don't know. No _Telvanni_ would lower themselves to petty tricks. Do you have any enemies in the Mages Guild?"

"Ah, good point. Would you mind asking around at the local chapter in Wolverine Hall on my account?"

"Pfft! As if _I_ would degrade myself by speaking with the guar-brained halfwits in that cesspool. Go ahead – poke around there yourself; I'm certain the culprit would be thrilled to grandstand themselves for mastering an elementary-level conjuration spell. They're probably boasting to their fellow 'mages' right now. Oh, what a riot. But I simply do not have the time for it. Sorry."

The way she spoke of the Mages Guild rather summed up quite nicely the level of disdain the Telvanni had for that institution. Or for anyone who wasn't Telvanni, really.

Angaredhel grumbled something Nils could not hear at the bottom of the stairs. The woman's voice, however, carried well.

"Oh – put away your coin purse. You're embarrassing yourself. I don't need your paltry funds. Go back to ripping off travelers, or whatever it is you do. Let me know if you need me to take care of another _scary_ ghost for you. They're very easily soultrapped. You'd be surprised!"

When Nils heard the woman's rapid pitter-patter down the stairs he slid unseen out the front door, walking slowly out into the daylight. The late afternoon sun was just beginning to set. He knew that Keevan expected him back at the ship by nightfall, but he still had some time to explore. Maybe he'd actually find some information about Sees-Through-Dusk. All he would have to do was speak to a slave-trader...

Nils heard the rustling of heavy robes quickly approaching from behind, and the mutterings of someone clearly in her own world, but it was too late for him to step aside and the haughty woman from earlier barreled into his back.

Nils whirled around, arms crossed. The woman had lost her balance from the impact and had tripped, arms flailing as she began to fall forwards. However, with movements quick and scurrying, she caught herself and took several quick steps backwards, a look of disgust on her face. From the way she spoke at the Inn, Nils had envisioned a tall and distinguished-looking sorceress, with a grand appearance to match her inflated speech. But this girl could not have appeared any more different from the image in his head. She was young – couldn't have been older than seventeen or eighteen, which was practically infancy to the long-lived Dunmer. Were her skin not ashen Nils would have thought her to be a Bosmer for her slight frame. She was short, and thin in a way that was almost sickly-looking. Her dark red hair was cropped short above her ears in a boyish haircut.

"Ugh! Watch where you're –"

"Standing?" asked Nils, darkening his voice to a low growl, about to improvise something potentially foolish. He remembered a few pointers from the crew and decided to try his hand at being the assassin he was supposed to impersonate. The girl seemed harmless enough.

"The nerve!" breathed the girl in an awestruck voice. "You ought not to stand around like a shambling revenant, anyhow. Do you even know who I am?"

Nils shook his head, staring down at her in a way he imagined must have been uncomfortable. He laced his words with venom as he spoke.

"No, you infantile girl, and I don't care who you are either. You should pay more attention to who it is you run into. I'm here on official business. _Guild_ business."

He spoke as low and rough as he possibly could. He was, of course, implying that the "guild" was the Morag Tong. Thankfully, it seemed to be having the right effect, for the girl's brow unfurrowed and her eyes widened.

Nils was inwardly pleased at this change in demeanor even if it were only an adolescent girl he had managed to convince of his affiliation to the ancient guild of assassins.

"My apologies, serjo. I'll be on my way."

But Nils stood in front of her as she tried to leave. The girl scowled.

"Not until you tell me one thing. It is the least you could do for disrupting my thoughts."

Speaking like this was beginning to hurt his voice. He wasn't certain how long he would be able to keep this up before the girl realized he wasn't anything close to an assassin.

Nils reached into his pocket, pulling out the Dwemer coin. He held it out between two fingers for her to look at.

"Do you know anything about this?"

The girl reacted positively upon seeing the coin and eagerly snatched it from his hand. She held it up to the light, squinting her eyes to examine its small lettering.

"Of course. I have quite an extensive collection of Dwemer artifacts myself. Strictly for research purposes, of course. It – it's not like I'm some kind of scavenger or plunderer, no. Nothing of the sort. Just ask Master Fyr. Yes, _that_ Master Fyr..."

Nils listened patiently as she continued to speak, waiting for her to get to the point.

"... my contributions have been invaluable to his research, I might add, though he often forgets to reference me in his works. He forgets a lot of other things too, you know. This one time, he left a Daedra heart in the – "

"Enough," Nils finally interjected, snapping his fingers. Clearly she was content to ramble on about whatever subject pleased her, and he didn't care to hear any more of her musings about what sounded like a very old and scatterbrained Telvanni wizard.

"Do you know where this piece was found?" he probed, trying to get her to focus again.

The girl held it up to the sunlight again.

"Hmm. Verdigris patina. Only notable because this level of oxidization of the bronze indicates exposure to the elements. Most ruins are underground, leaving their treasures relatively pristine when undisturbed. I only know of one ruin it could have plausibly been taken from... it would be a coincidence of titanic proportions, but perhaps..."

Suddenly the girl's red eyes became so wide that Nils feared they may pop out of their sockets. He only now noticed a few pockmarks on her face, likely from a childhood illness. She stood on her toes to look him straight in the eye.

"Tell me... how did you come into possession of this piece? The ruins of Rthalzeft are nearly impossible to excavate without a powerful water-breathing spell or potion."

There was another change in her demeanor. Her features twisted to that of hatred.

" Oh – no, _no._ I see it now. You've come for me. Though I've tried to keep my research under the utmost confidentiality I've been meticulously charting the tides for two years so that I could know the optimal time to explore it. Who sent you? I'll be able to pay you just as much – no, double! Look, serjo. I won't ask who your client is, though I'm certain it must be that sniveling Vedran. It's him, isn't it? Thinks he can get to Rthalzeft's lost codices before me? Ha! Let me give you an offer worth considering. I have many artifacts. Daedric weapons, Dwemer kitchenware, even ancient Ayleid welkynd stones."

Nils remained silent, his arms crossed as he forced to keep his face hard and free of emotions. He did not know anything he could possibly say in reply to her declaration, or offer, without possibly blowing his own cover.

The girl leaned closer, half-whispering.

"If you must know, I also have a few black soul gems. I mean nothing untoward by it, but I suppose a man like you could use those to his advantage..."

Nils was rather taken aback by her frantic efforts to bribe him against... whatever it was she thought he was here for.

"Calm yourself. It is not a child like you I am after, but I begin to question your innocence if you believe you can bribe me into a dishonorable killing."

His throat was feeling raw from the unnatural lowering of his tone. He wondered if eventually he could strain his vocal cords so that he wouldn't have to pretend at a gravely voice. Would at least make speaking with the locals slightly easier.

"What did you say your name was?" Nils asked.

"I didn't." The girl answered icily, her attitude returning upon realizing he was not out to get her.

Nils uncrossed his arms smirking at her.

"Your Vedran had more enemies than you, it seems. No matter. I thought you might like it if I gave him your name. While he begins to beg for mercy as they all do, of course."

The girl at first seemed almost horrified that Nils implied Vedran was his mark, though in the end if it suited her purposes who was she to interfere?

"Velani. Zaryth Velani. Apprentice to the great Telvanni Wizard-Lord Divayth Fyr and resident of – "

Nils held up a hand.

"Stop there, at Zaryth Velani. Write the rest down on a sheet of parchemnt, roll it up, and have it delivered to someone who cares."

He felt slightly proud of himself for that particular barb.

Zaryth grumbled a few inaudible curses to herself, shifting her weight between her feet in some anxious gesture. Her silky robes were an extravagant azure, though the sleeves were much too long, going over her hands. The skirts trailed the ground, though when she walked she carried her robes so that it would not catch the dirt.

"Are you from Kragenmoor?" she asked, seemingly out of the blue.

Nils nodded slowly after some brief deliberation. He knew the city was close to the Morrowind-Cyrodiil border, just over the mountains. Close to his home town of Cheydinhal. He knew enough about Kragenmoor to lie his way through this.

"I could recognize that posh accent from anywhere. _B'vek_ , you may as well tell me your name if I've told you mine."

"Hlervu," Nils said stiffly.

"That doesn't help. I know a lot of Dunmer named Hlervu."

"Hlervu," he maintained through his teeth. "What makes you think you're entitled to any information about me? Now, unless you wanted to tell me more about Rthalzeft..."

But now Zaryth's eyes flamed with indignation at his mentioning Rthalzeft.

"The same reason you seem to feel entitled to rob any Dwemer ruins for sport! I know your kind. That's why you've asked so many questions. You can hide behind your facade of honor when you kill for money if that even is your profession, but there is nothing honorable in plundering a ruin. Oh, how much progress we would have made uncovering the secrets of the Dwemer if thieves did not pilfer anything they could sell. These artifacts – " she brandished the coin at him. "should be in the hands of scholars! I won't allow you to get to Rthalzeft before me! I _won't_!"

It was as if she had either forgotten all about potentially offending a dangerous assassin, or had more realistically called his bluff by now and assumed he was merely a thief. Zaryth tossed the coin at Nils, gathering the skirts of her robe and storming off in a huff.

Her aim was off and the coin missed him, hitting a beige naturally-growing mushroom along the side of the Gateway Inn instead. When the coin hit the mushroom it sent a spray of a powdery pollen-like substance into the air.

Nils sneezed.

Well, at least the girl was earnest about her research, if anything. Nils picked the coin up off the ground and dusted it off before placing it back in his pocket.

If that was not the most bizarre exchange he had since arriving in Vvardenfell, he did not know what was. Still, this Rthalzeft seemed worth looking into. Even if he had to fight off an obsessive Telvanni apprentice.

The only question was... _where_ on Nirn was it? Zaryth seemed like she was about to take that information to her deathbed.

He realized with distaste that he had used all of his extra time speaking with this girl about a Dwemer ruin he may not ever find rather than searching for clues that led to the missing Blades informant, who was very likely in some kind of real danger. But evening was fast approaching, and Nils had to return to the Nereid's Wrath. Keevan had another task for him.


	8. Omaren Plantation

**A/N: As of Nov 12 I have overhauled chapters 4 and 5. Check it out again if you want; if not, that's alright too. I didn't change the plot at all; mostly characterization.**

* * *

 **Omaren Plantation.**

J'zhirr couldn't take all of the credit for the plan, but he could proudly take most. Addhiranirr, their Thieves Guild contact, had some clever ideas of her own. But J'zhirr had confidence, especially after working Nils into his plan. This was going to be their cleanest job yet.

The Khajiit crouched on a cliff overlooking the Omaren estate. Built on a floodplain, it was now a fairly large marshmerrow and saltrice plantation. In the distance, he saw the warm candlelight emanating through the windows of the manor.

The Telvanni resented the Empire for selling unused land near Wolverine Hall to a Dres retainer, but J'zhirr knew the wizard-lords had previously written off the flooded land as useless. Now that someone else found a use for it, the transparent Telvanni suddenly decided that the land should be theirs.

J'zhirr could not stop thinking about how lucky he had been to find Nils. The plan had originally been to use an Imperial contact in Wolverine Hall to pose as a tax inspector, but it was decided that the plantation owner would relate better with a Dunmer, even a half-Dunmer. Omaren was a Dres retainer, after all, and one with Imperial sympathies. But not too much sympathy. Nils was perfect. He had even been invited for dinner with Omaren and his other guest, a Telvanni lord with an offer to buy a share of the land. Obviously Nils' arrival was a fortuitous event for Omaren as well, who must have hoped to embarrass this Telvanni lord.

J'zhirr had even chosen the best clothes for Nils to wear, 'borrowed' from a tailor in Wolverine Hall. If J'zhirr liked to brag, he would boast that this plan was flawless. But because he was a humble Khajiit, he could only say that his plan was genius. So long as it was executed accordingly.

In the distance J'zhirr saw a figure patrolling about the saltrice paddies, lighting several torches dotting the perimeter of the plantation. J'zhirr knew these torches would remain lit from sundown to sunrise, to prevent any slaves from escaping in the dark of the night. He knew it very well.

The Khajiit heard a rustle in the tall grass.

"There are only three night shift guards. Camonna Tong. Armed. But no matter. Addhiranirr has poisoned their stew. Soon they will all want to take a nice, long sleep."

The purring female voice behind him startled J'zhirr. He turned to see a lithe female Khajiit with orange and white fur.

Addhiranirr was a good sneak. Perhaps better than J'zhirr, he would admit. But J'zhirr was better at making clever plans.

"Eternal sleep?" asked J'zhirr, his eagerness perhaps a bit too revealing.

"The poison is strong, but not that strong. Khajiit does not wish to make a mess. Ilmeni told Addhiranirr not to shed unnecessary blood."

J'zhirr scratched his ear in annoyance. Of course Ilmeni had said that. Ilmeni Dren was the leader of the Twin Lamps, and while J'zhirr had great respect for her, the Dunmer woman had never been a slave. She did not know that some bloodshed was necessary, especially where so many innocents were concerned. J'zhirr personally believed that leaving bodies of the plantation owners and their cruel overseers would send a far more powerful message.

Addhiranirr's tail swished back and forth impatiently as she watched the plantation. To look inconspicuous, she wore a tattered homespun dress and an iron bracer on her wrist. The exact same bond the slaveholders used to subjugate their chattel.

"Is that..." J'zhirr pointed to the contraption.

"Real? No. It is the same, with no enchantment. Addhiranirr has one for J'zhirr as well. One cannot always be invisible, but Khajiit can always hide in plain sight."

J'zhirr had to admit this was another clever idea of hers. He wasn't very comfortable with some of the unpleasant memories that resurfaced as he allowed her to clap the heavy bracer on his right wrist and lock it into place, but he did not feel the same crippling energy-sapping effects of the enchanted bracers. A clever idea indeed. He removed his shirt so that he would look like more of a slave, because a slave would not wear a fine spidersilk doublet like J'zhirr. Addhiranirr's eyes gazed momentarily at the faded scars on his chest and back, but she did not mention it.

"Now. The night guards will be heading out to change shifts. The poison will take effect very shortly. Khenarthi's wind be on your back."

Addhiranirr blended into the shadows and vanished.

J'zhirr followed her towards the plantation with slightly more reluctance. No matter how many of these places he had visited since his liberation, there would always be that feeling of dread in his belly.

Despite the torches, there were plenty of places for a Khajiit to hide. J'zhirr and Addhiranirr were able to avoid detection quite easily, especially with the patrols out of the way. The soil was damp and squished under their feet, but the steady chirping of crickets drowned out most sounds. Addhiranirr disappeared to do whatever it was she said she was doing, and J'zhirr crouched under an open window of the manor to eavesdrop on the conversation. The smells and sounds were warm and inviting enough. He hoped that Nils was blending in alright.

"It is good that we understand each other on the Census and Excise agency's policy, Tacitus – pardon my indiscretion. May I call you Tacitus?"

" _Sedura_ , it does bring me happiness to strengthen our ties to House Dres and its retainers. The Empire only hopes to see the success of your enterprise, and I will put in my word to the tax collectors. To let you in on a little secret, they're ready to turn a blind eye on certain tariffs so long as some of the extra coin goes into their pockets."

J'zhirr recognized this as Nils' voice over the sound of clanking silverware and moving of plates. He was acting exactly as he was supposed to. Like a fawning Imperial desperate for validation from the Great Houses.

"You wound me with your insistent formality. Please. No more Lord Omaren, or _sedura._ I have invited you to dine at my table, introduced you to my wife, and now we are having a friendly discussion of politics. Call me Dravos. Now, I have one final indulgence prepared tonight, one that I'm certain your Imperial taste would appreciate. Ta-zeet! Where is she – Ah! There's that useless Argonian. Bring us the last tray."

Omaren clapped his hands and J'zhirr heard scurrying footsteps disappear down the hall.

J'zhirr peeked through the window and saw the grand feast set out at the table. Much of it was imported Imperial food – Omaren had developed a curious taste – bowls of fruit with juicy grapes, slices of melon, and the largest strawberries that J'zhirr had ever seen. Many assorted wedges of cheeses were set out, and J'zhirr faintly recalled that in Cyrodiil there were more than fifty different types of cheese and connoisseurs who could tell the difference just with one whiff. The main course was a Horker roast from Solstheim, complemented with vegetables from Cyrodiil. It was a marvel that it all looked so fresh even after days on a ship. Some Dunmer food was included, though only the delicacies: slaughterfish roe, boiled Kwama eggs in those little cups that J'zhirr knew to be an Imperial invention, and of course the table was not complete without the obligatory jugs of sujamma and flin, for while Omaren may have grown fond of his luxurious Imperial food, J'zhirr himself knew that Dunmer spirits were always the strongest.

Another guest, a rather heavy-set Dunmer wearing gaudy robes of yellow and orange leaned his chair backwards, patting his stomach.

"I daresay Lord Dravos, after this generous feast I shall not find need to dine for a week!"

This Dunmer who had ingratiatingly attempted to worm his way back into the conversation was the Telvanni mentioned. But Omaren only shook his head disdainfully.

"I do not believe we are on a first name basis yet, _sera_. With such familiar speech I may begin to imagine that your motives are not quite so sincere."

The Telvanni mustered all of his willpower to mutter an apology, absentmindedly crushing snowberries with his fork.

J'zhirr felt sympathy for the Argonian house slave who brought out the tray. The slaves starved as they watched their masters gorge themselves to excess. He noticed that Nils seemed to have lost his appetite because of this as well, for most of his food had been pushed to the sides of his plate rather than eaten.

J'zhirr wanted to praise himself again for the quality outfit he had procured for Nils. He truly looked like a gentleman of modest wealth in the burgundy quilted tunic, black suede hose, and kagouti hide boots.

"Enjoying the smells?"

The rough voice came from outside. J'zhirr leaped to his feet and jumped away from the window, but it was too late. A Dunmer slammed his fist on J'zhirr's head. He was momentarily dizzy from this blow.

The man was a Camonna Tong mercenary, one of the guards the plantation owner had hired. He was clad in a full set of chitin armor but seemed to have forgotten his face piece.

"Back to the shack, stray cat. Lest you want to be the next course in Master Omaren's feast."

The Dunmer pushed him forward with his hands.

"Move."

J'zhirr pretended to cooperate, bringing his hands behind his back, but when the Dunmer became momentarily distracted by a cliff racer flying overhead J'zhirr slipped behind him. He was so quick that Rajhin the Thief may have missed him if he blinked. In one fluid movement his glass dagger did not so much as slice but instead gently caressed his exposed throat, cutting precisely the only vein he needed to so that the man's death would be instantaneous with the least amount of blood. A clean kill that J'zhirr could be proud of. Perhaps he ought to have been a surgeon with his skilled hands.

But the man was too heavy to catch and J'zhirr cringed as the Dunmer's insect-husk armor made a cracking sound when his body hit the ground. He ducked out of sight of the window, but to his relief he found that the entire table was busy laughing jovially at Omaren's joke about a lusty Argonian maid. J'zhirr breathed a sigh of relief, wondering why so many thieves favored chitin armor when it was so noisy.

Addhiranirr crept into sight not long after.

"What happened? Addhiranirr put the poison in the tureen. They all went to the kitchen to eat."

"He must have skipped dinner," J'zhirr said sheepishly, using his foot to shove the Dunmer over so that they did not have to see his dead eyes wide with horror. Shamelessly, he grabbed the coinpurse at the man's belt and shoved it into his pocket. Addhiranirr made a clicking sound with her tongue in disapproval.

So much for a clean job.

But it could be worse.

"Help Addhiranirr drag him to the shack," she hissed, grabbing the dark elf's limp arms. J'zhirr grabbed his legs, and together they brought him to the tiny shack that functioned as sleeping quarters for about ten slaves.

Addhiranirr went in first so that the slaves would not be spooked. J'zhirr waited outside with the body.

"Psst. Don't scream. Addhiranirr is here to help. She has others. Have you heard of the Twin Lamps?"

A few of the slaves murmured their assent. Some sounded more afraid than relieved.

"They light the way to freedom," spoke one quiet voice with reverence, its source undetectable.

"We don't want any trouble," interjected an old Argonian male. "Any of us try to escape, they beat us near to death and only let us live so that we can regret it," he said.

The words resonated with J'zhirr so much that his fur stood up.

"There is no hope for escape. Khajiit will not betray her Master, because Khajiit fears Master more than strange woman." came another voice.

J'zhirr did not wait for Addhiranirr to convince the slaves to cooperate as he dragged the body into the cramped sleeping quarters. The living conditions were ghastly. The wooden slats that served as flooring were all but rotted from moisture, the air was just as cold as it was outside, and not every slave even had a bedroll to sleep on. The Khajiit woman who had spoken up earlier gripped a patched pillow to her chest, as if it were a prized possession she had to fight for.

Several gasps and muffled cries were let out upon seeing the body of the Camonna Tong thug.

"What have you done? Our hides will decorate the walls of Omaren Manor for generations when Master finds this."

"If we tell Master Omaren first we will not be punished as harshly!" squeaked a younger Argonian boy, running towards the door.

J'zhirr noticed one lone Dunmer leaning against the back wall, his face emotionless. He had no shirt and his body was just as lean as the other slaves, but it was odd to see a Dunmer working amongst Khajiit and Argonians. But J'zhirr knew that this was not the top priority, and so he stood in front of the door to block the boy from leaving.

"J'zhirr knows you are afraid. J'zhirr had almost lost hope too, when he worked in House Dren's netch fields."

The Khajiit crouched in front of the boy, forcing him into eye contact.

"You've all been hurt trying to escape. J'zhirr understands this fear. J'zhirr can show the scars to prove it. But this time, you will be free. And this one will make certain that no harm comes to his brothers and sisters again. We will show you the stars that lead to Black Marsh, and the stars that lead to Elsweyr. We have a ship that flies with Khenarthi's winds in her sails!"

A hush fell over the shack. A few of the slaves murmured to themselves, but most were too awestruck to speak. More still were skeptical, but most were simply afraid.

Addhiranirr stayed with the slaves to keep them calm and contained while J'zhirr went outside for the key. His head was still pounding from when the thug hit him, but he could still see as clearly as ever.

He felt droplets of water, intermittent at first but then it became a steady downpour. J'zhirr cursed at the rain.

How bothersome. Now he was cold _and_ wet.

He waited until the Telvanni guest had left and Omaren's wife and children were upstairs in their bedrooms. Nils was still deep in conversation when they exited the door.

Trying not to gag, J'zhirr gulped down the entire invisibility potion that Addhiranirr had given him. He vanished completely. Oh, the power that thieves would have, if they all were alchemists like Addhiranirr.

"It does pain my heart to resume my business after you have welcomed me into your home and shown such generosity, Dravos."

"Nonsense, Tacitus. I would be a poor host if I did not allow you to finish the task you had come here for. Let us move to the first storage house. Now... this is strictly between two friends, but there are certain... personal affects contained in there, in large quantities. I know it is a delicate matter, but- "

Nils held up a hand.

"Not another word. I do not need to know if it is skooma or unregulated ebony you are keeping. We all have secrets we would like to hide from the Empire, and I would never destroy our friendship over a crate or two of moon sugar."

"It relieves me to hear you say that, Tacitus. Would you care to join me inside after our business and warm up with another flask of Sujamma? I confess I did not display my best vintage while that strutting Telvanni peacock was here."

"I would be more than pleased. Now, let me read you my official papers and we can be done with this unpleasant little business."

It looked like Nils had done a great job of getting Omaren to like him. But J'zhirr could sense the growing tension in his voice, for it would exhaust anyone to have to butter up such a depraved individual whose charming dinner topics included the most effective methods of punishment that minimized permanent physical damage.

Creeping silently on the balls of his feet, J'zhirr could see the key on the man's belt. He reached out his hand. Just a little closer...

His foot snapped a twig.

J'zhirr remained absolutely still... yet Omaren had already heard it, even over the rain. The worst part about plantation owners was that they weren't stupid. They were constantly paranoid of escape attempts and assassination attempts.

"Hold a moment. Something isn't right."

The plantation owner proved to be extremely prepared. He reached into his bag and pulled out an enchanted scroll. Before Nils could ask, the man unfurled it and a milky white light bathed their immediate surroundings.

Dispel.

J'zhirr knew he had stepped backwards into a figurative pile of guar feces as his invisibility faded with the spell. Omaren's face twisted with fury as he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. His legs dangled in the air.

" _Fetcher!_ Didn't Rii-la's punishment teach you any lessons? Ungrateful _s'wit_!"

J'zhirr could hardly breath, and his entire body began to feel weak. He tried to kick his legs, but they felt like soft noodles, no force behind his struggle. Omaren's gloves were enchanted to drain fatigue on those he touched.

Still holding the Khajiit up by his neck, Omaren had a contrite expression on his face as he turned to Nils.

"Please excuse me while I take care of something. I promise we will conduct our business after this unpleasant situation is dealt with. Happens more often than I'd like to admit."

Then, his voice changed from polite to vulgar yet again as he shouted loud enough so that those in the shack would hear.

"Get up, you swine! I want to see all of you standing in a line, now! I've found your little tomcat trying to escape. I know he isn't smart enough to make a potion like this on his own. Ra'vian, I know you were hoarding bittergreen petals. Did Vidanja steal a diamond from my lady's necklace? The ones who tell me who helped this mangy cur won't be losing any fingers or toes tonight."

Nils saw the glint of J'zhirr's glass dagger that had fallen into the flooded saltrice paddy. He reached down to grab it, slippery hands almost fumbling as he clutched it in his left hand.

"Look at this. How in Oblivion did one of your slaves manage to steal such a weapon?" Nils asked, holding it up.

But when Omaren turned his head to look, Nils instantly plunged the green dagger into his eye and took two steps backwards. The slave master choked and screamed in agonizing pain, dropping the Khajiit and flailing blindly as he attempted to remove the weapon protruding from his face. Nils pushed Omaren's face down into the waterlogged ground so that his shrieks were muffled. After less than a minute, he stopped screaming altogether.

J'zhirr found this all very thrilling. It was over so fast that he wanted to see it again.

The Khajiit sprung to his feet. He sighed with disappointment when he noticed that Nils now had blood on his new clothes. He hoped the stain would wash out... it was such a nice tunic, and he had chosen it specifically to compliment Nils' features. He stood on all fours a moment to shake the mud and water out of his fur the best he could.

Wordlessly, the dark elf pulled the key from Omaren's belt and handed it to J'zhirr.

J'zhirr nodded solemnly his thanks for saving his life, but did not tarry much longer. He used his foot to hold down the Dunmer's body as he wedged the blade out of his eye.

He was cold and his lovely orange tabby coat was soaking wet, but they had survived. Khenarthi's luck truly was with them tonight.

"Let me clean off the eye juice," J'zhirr mentioned playfully to Nils, who did not seem to be in the right state of mind to appreciate his humor. He wiped the blood off on his pants and bounded towards the slaves that were now slowly filing out of the shack after hearing the commotion. Addhiranirr managed to line them up in an orderly fashion to free them of their bonds one by one while J'zhirr volunteered to retrieve the house slaves (and anything of value he could steal) from the manor.

* * *

 **Azura's Coast Region**.

"Well, J'zhirr says that was a clean job," J'zhirr mentioned enthusiastically as they made the trek back to where the Nereid's Wrath was waiting. They had fourteen liberated slaves huddled together for warmth but the quiet Dunmer indentured servant walked behind everyone else. J'zhirr knew that many of the older laborers still believed that they had only stolen them to sell to another master, but they still went along, as any chance of escape was better than none.

Addhiranirr hissed at him.

"Too much blood. Ilmeni won't be happy."

"With only two dead we've freed fifteen slaves."

"Maybe. But Addhiranirr tells Ilmeni that the blood was your fault."

J'zhirr smirked, giving Addhiranirr's ears a playful scratch.

"Of course. J'zhirr will take the blame for all the mess. Tell her good things about Nils while you're at it. He was the real hero."

Nils crossed his arms and looked downwards as they sloshed through the mud, clearly not feeling particularly heroic.

Addhiranirr tilted her head as she examined Nils for the first time. J'zhirr did not know what Addhiranirr was thinking, but she had a perplexed expression on her face, as if Nils were a Dwemer puzzle-box whose mystery she was trying to solve.

"Nils? This name is familiar. Is this the name Addhiranirr would call you?"

"I suppose it's better than Tacitus." He offered the best smile he could muster, but he looked exhausted.

It looked like Nils knew that the Khajiit woman had planned on saying something else, but he was too tired to argue with her. J'zhirr knew that playing games with that despicable Dunmer must have drained him far more than any sword fight could.

J'zhirr was excited for their return to the Nereid's Wrath. Captain Lark would be pleased with this job. _He_ would not give too much care for the mess.

The Twin Lamps could use someone like Nils.


	9. Memories

**On Board the Nereid's Wrath, Zafirbel Bay**

The extra noise and bustle of the fourteen liberated Khajiit and Argonians on the ship was long gone, having disembarked at Wolverine Hall with a Twin Lamps contact who would sail them to the mainland of Morrowind. Keevan seemed to be feeling particularly generous that day, and gave them each a single piece of ebony. It was tiny, just enough for a jeweler to fashion into an amulet or ring, but the gold from selling it would be enough to either secure passage to their homelands, or last them well enough until they could find honest (or dishonest) work.

The only one who did stay on board was the quiet Dunmer from earlier. He only leaned against the railing, staring out at the night horizon. Nils almost felt bad for him, as he had yet to acquire a shirt of his own and his bare chest revealed a lean, sinewy figure; the sharp edges of his ribs visible. Yet he stood tall, carrying himself with the pride of a nobleman against the heavy wind.

"Are you not cold out here?" Nils asked as he approached him.

J'zhirr would murder him in his sleep if he gave away the fine tunic he was wearing, but he still had a spare shirt tossed aside somewhere below deck. It was the beginning of Hearthfire and the night air was noticeably cooler than before.

The Dunmer remained unmoving, not even turning his head. He waited a long while to speak, as though he had all the time in the world to answer Nils' question.

"Suppose it doesn't matter anymore. _Ai._ Don't feel much of anything these days, _sera._ "

Nils wasn't certain what to say to this. There was a recognizable fire in the Dunmer's eyes, in the forced composure of his raspy voice. Vengeance. Nils understood this all too well. It could consume even the kindest of hearts if left uncontrolled.

"Do you have a name?" he asked carefully.

This time the Dunmer finally turned so that he could face Nils. He looked to be in his sixties or seventies. Not quite considered 'old' for a Dunmer, and still at least twice Nils' age. His face was gaunt with hollow cheeks and those glowering red eyes. The length of his unwashed reddish-brown hair had been pulled back as if to retain some semblance of a groomed appearance.

Nils heard the Dunmer's teeth clench, could feel the anger simmering.

"Name? Is it of any relevance anymore? Only name that matters now is Hlaalu. They took my right to a name when I became their property eleven years ago. I assume you expect me to fall to my knees with gratitude for saving me. ' _Oh, thank you great hero, you have saved me from a horrible fate.'_ Is that all you want to hear, when I have nothing left to offer you but my pride? If I prostrate myself to you like the other beasts of burden, will you leave me to my thoughts, _serjo_?"

His tone already sardonic, the man growled that last word with particular vitriol. But Nils knew the man was more bitter than dangerous. He didn't feel threatened at all despite the harsh demeanor. Nils thought he mostly just looked cold.

Nils disappeared below deck a moment, returning with a bunched-up linen shirt in one hand. It was nothing special, and still smelled of netch leather from when he wore his armor over it, but the Dunmer snatched it without any words of protest.

After the Dunmer had properly covered himself, he went back to staring out at the stars. A moment of silence passed before he spoke again.

"Nerano. The name feels odd on my tongue to say it again. Athal Nerano."

Nils still kept a safe distance of about a yard when he moved to stand next to Athal.

"You decided to stay with us?" he asked, though kept a casual tone to his voice to avoid sounding like he was prying. Nils was curious, about that fire in Athal's eyes that had been stoked by eleven years of indentured servitude. Such hatred was destructive, but mostly to oneself.

"Your Captain Lark said I could stay so long as I pull my weight. If the winds are in our favor, he said we'll be in the West Gash region by Frostfall. Suppose I'll get off there. Walk to Balmora from Seyda Neen."

Nils was shocked to hear that he was planning on going to Balmora. He would have thought Athal would have wanted to escape House Hlaalu, not return to one of their cities.

"You have family there?"

Athal leaned back against the rails, crossing his arms over his chest. Nils heard him clench his teeth again.

"My brother. _Ai._ Family may be too kind a word for one such as him."

His words were dripping with his calm and collected hatred, the most dangerous kind.

In that moment Nils understood that Athal did not plan on leaving Balmora with his brother still alive.

"I see. And what do you plan on doing after you deal with your brother?"

Nils pressed him, though with a quiet understanding. Had events not transpired the way they did, Nils knew he would be ruled by a similar bloodlust.

Athal Nerano had no response to this question.

* * *

That night, before he laid himself out to sleep on his cot, Nils pulled a thick leather-bound journal out of his pack. It looked and felt the same as it had six years ago. The only thing that had changed was himself.

Nils remembered his surprise when Sellus presented him with a package containing his old journal before he left the Census and Excise office. He thought the guards would have disposed of it by now, though of course it was still 'evidence.' Since his arrival in Vvardenfell he only wrote in it occasionally to mark dates of events and keep track of the names and places encountered in his journey, but when he was brave enough he would flip back several pages to entries dated years ago, when he had still been on the city watch in Cheydinhal. Mostly the pages were filled with shift notes, first drafts of letters, and a few shopping lists. But he found himself going back to the last entry before his imprisonment. Reading all of this again, the words sounded so foreign, as if a different man had written them. And yet, had he really changed all that much in six years?

* * *

 _ **Cheydinhal castle dungeon, 1 Morning Star, 3E 421.**_

 _A new year has begun, and I will spend the festival knowing what the dungeons look like from the inside of a holding cell. The guards will not let me see mother or Iluna but they allowed me my journal and a bit of charcoal as I await my judgment. No one can ever say the Legion has any dearth of kindness on a holiday. To think I had been planning for months to propose to Savaarie during the New Life festival... I mustn't dwell upon that trivial matter anymore. Everyone is whispering about how they cannot believe it was me, how they never knew I could do something like this. What I cannot believe is that they are already convinced of my guilt. As if it wasn't cruel enough to lose my father in this way, I am now to be tried for his murder. False evidence has been planted to point to me as the murderer, but I didn't – couldn't – do something so horrific to someone I loved. I am deeply saddened to lose my father, but I have yet to shed my tears for him. I will mourn him properly when I am able to, for I must focus on clearing my name and avoiding the executioner's axe. I cannot avenge his death if my head is lopped off for a crime I did not commit._

* * *

Nils flipped ahead several pages to more recent entries. One of them outlined his meeting with Zaryth Velani, that peculiar Telvanni girl with all her lofty airs. Rthalzeft had been mentioned. Rthalzeft. That was a name that he had written several times on the paper. On the opposite page he had sketched the Dwemer symbol on the coin from various angles.

Azura had told him that the coin would bring him closer to the truth.

The coin had came from Rthalzeft.

Would Rthalzeft bring him closer to the truth?

It was his only lead, unless he wanted to continue his blind search after an Argonian named Sees-Through-Dusk. He had asked every single one of the liberated slaves and none of them had even heard of anyone with that name, though one Argonian knew a Dusk-Claw.

Nils closed the journal and laid his head down on the lumpy canvas pillow.

He heard something stir on the bunk above him, followed by a rustling of sheets. J'zhirr was still awake.

"J'zhirr," Nils said.

"At your service," came the mirthful response from above. The Khajiit was still in a good mood from the other day.

"Do you know anything about a Dwemer ruin in Zafirbel Bay? Might be partly underwater. Name of Rthalzeft. Stir any memories?" he asked.

"Mm. J'zhirr remembers one. On an island near Tel Aruhn. Much too bothersome for Khajiit to plunder. Too cold, too wet, treasure all rusted. Forced to retreat when a slaughterfish tried to eat poor J'zhirr's tail. Not worth it. Perhaps if J'zhirr were an Argonian. But if J'zhirr were not Khajiit, he would not be so handsome."

Nils laughed along with J'zhirr this time.

"Are we stopping at Tel Aruhn?" he finally asked.

"It is on the way to Vos. Captain Lark will stop there for a night. Perhaps even two. Not much there to keep us any longer."

Nils stretched his arms, relaxing them behind his head as he laid on his back.

"Those ruins might be worth checking out. I think I will do that."

J'zhirr said nothing, obviously not agreeing with that sentiment. Nils realized he would have to go alone. Alma had been avoiding him since he mentioned Azura, and Walde and Keevan had much better things to do. Perhaps his new acquaintance Athal would be interested, but he was unarmed and probably just as interested as J'zhirr was in exploring a cold, wet ruin with mostly useless treasure.

Nils closed his eyes, drifting into the twilight realm between sleep and consciousness. He heard two distinct voices deep in argument. They spoke in an archaic dialect lost in time, only barely resembling the language now known as Dunmeris, but somehow Nils understood every word. He could not process any of this information on a conscious level, but it all seemed very familiar to him.

* * *

" _Lord Nerevar, your generals stand behind you with a knife at your back, and you still choose their claims over mine? You are my brother-in-arms, my beloved companion. Think upon what we have accomplished together. We have united the Chimer and the Dwemer for the first time in centuries against the Nordic invasion. Let us forget these baseless accusations and start anew."_

" _It is not the counsel of my generals that guide me but the words of the only queen I kneel to. The goddess Azura has shown me a prophetic vision. Because I love you as a brother I implore you to seek out the truth. Kagrenac cares not for the Dwemer. His power is a mockery of divinity fashioned from mortal hands and it will destroy you all. Open your eyes, Dumac! Let your pride not blind you to Kagrenac's corruption!"_

" _Ah, Azura is responsible for this madness. She must have killed my blood-friend and reanimated him as her puppet. Dearest Nerevar, I believe you have forgotten why our people had been at war for centuries. Do you not realize your own hypocrisy? You demand we denounce the High Craftlord while you Chimer continue to bow to the whims of the Princes of Oblivion!"_

" _Then by the Prince of Dawn and Dusk, I vow to end the reign of the obscene mechanical-divine. Under moon-and-star, if I am slain in battle and my soul must be dragged from Oblivion to complete my task, I will not rest until the people of Resdayn are free from the treachery of false gods. I have loved you as a brother, and will continue to love you, but my hand will not stay, not even if it must be raised against my dearest comrades."_

Nils dreamed of the fires beneath Red Mountain, and a man wearing a golden mask that addressed him as Nerevar.


	10. Sleeper in Tel Aruhn

**Tel Aruhn, Plot and Plaster Inn**

Archmagister Gothren, distinguished head of great house Telvanni, was said to live in a magnificent tower in the city of Tel Aruhn. When the Nereid's Wrath pulled up to its port, Nils thought that calling Tel Aruhn a city would be a generous description. Calling it a town would also be stretching the truth. What Tel Aruhn actually consisted of was a tiny cluster of about four modest mushroom homes and a mushroom inn that were dwarfed by the shadow of the massive tower of Archmagister Gothren.

Of course, none of them were planning on paying the Archmagister a visit. They had only arrived to restock on supplies and possibly hear some stories on local lore. And after eating nothing but scrib jerky for a week, they all were looking forward to a good meal at the Plot and Plaster Inn.

At the table next to them Nils overheard two off-duty guards muttering about a scandal. Apparently Master Neloth had sent someone to Tel Aruhn to kill a modest servant because he coveted the enchanted robe she wore. What was of particular note was that they were not surprised by the brutality of such an act, but at the fact that Neloth had stooped so low to the point where he was jealous of a lowly commoner. Surely a Telvanni Lord ought to have more dignity than that.

Nils was beginning to think that all Telvanni were rather nutty.

The inn was made of the same hollowed-out, mottled toadstool that most of the other homes were made of. The initial surprise at being _inside_ of a giant mushroom had long worn off with Nils back in Sadrith Mora, and he had begun to realize that his nose always seemed to itch and his eyes watered whenever they were inside one of these places. It was rather uncomfortable.

Across the round wooden table they were seated at, he looked at Alma.  
The room was dimly lit by paper lanterns that hung from the ceiling. Half of her face was in shadow, the other half illuminated by the faint orange glow.

"Alma, do you know how to make a potion of water breathing?" Nils asked the priestess.

She nodded, making a motion with her hands as if to write. Perhaps a bit too eagerly, Nils tore a page from his journal and handed her a charcoal pencil. His eyebrows raised as he watched her write the ingredients he was to retrieve for her.

 _Luminous Russula_

 _Hackle-Lo Leaf_

"So... you're not allowed to speak, but you can write? By the eight, I don't know why I didn't think of this before. We can have a conversation like this? With you – writing – what you want to say?"

Alma blinked at him as if he were speaking Orcish. She handed him the ingredients list and the journal and went back to daintily eating her plate of crab meat.

Nils was certainly vexed at how different she had been acting ever since he had told her about Azura's vision, and while he did not lash out there was a faint hint of passive-aggression in his voice.

"Many thanks. If you ever feel like writing something down to let me know how I offended you back on the ship, let me know."

He turned to leave the inn. It was getting too stuffy in there.

Alma was far more complicated than he had originally thought. Sometimes it seemed like she was fond of him, and other times she treated him as if he were an atronach. It was her eyes, her observant almond-shaped eyes that had begun to unsettle him the most. Sometimes, when he was on the ship, he would feel a tingle down his spine and when he turned around he saw that it was because she was staring at him. Unblinking. Motionless. It was as if she were trying to gaze straight into his soul.

Before he made it out the door, an icy hand gripped his arm.

"I bring you a message."

The words were whispered in his ear, for him to hear and him alone.

"Dagoth Ur calls you. He waits in Red Mountain. The Sixth House was not dead, but sleeping."

Nils turned around to catch a glance at who was whispering these ominous words. Some madman, no doubt.

To his surprise, it was the innkeeper that had served them food not an hour ago. His eyes were unfocused, not seeing anything in this plane of existence.

"I'm sorry," Nils said, phenomenally able to keep his composure. "You must have the wrong person."

Politely Nils tried to pry the hand off his arm, but the man tightened his grip. The sharp fingernails dug into his skin.

"The ash-children carve out their own eyes so that they may look upon Lord Dagoth. How will you pledge to him your loyalty?"

No one in the inn seemed to have noticed this interaction. The man's whispers were so quiet that they were intended for Nils' ear alone.

His blood turned cold. He had no idea who Dagoth Ur was, and he certainly did not want to carve his eyes out.

He managed to free his arm and forcefully push the man away.

The innkeeper blinked, stumbling backwards against a counter. He shook his head, life returning back to his eyes.

"Huh. Fell asleep for a second. Ah. You dropped this, outlander."

Nils breathed a sigh of relief.

The innkeeper handed him the piece of paper with the ingredients on it. Not like he wouldn't have been able to remember two simple ingredients, but he mumbled a thanks and dashed out the door as quickly as he could without seeming too suspicious.

* * *

 **Tel Aruhn, Market**

His heart was still pounding from that interaction. Sixth House? Dagoth Ur? Did any of this have to do with that dream he had last night?

He had mused that all Telvanni must be a little mad, but this... this was just insane. Perhaps he was going a bit mad, himself, for he was beginning to wonder the meaning of all of this.

He took a deep breath to compose himself and continued to walk down the uneven cobblestone path that circled around the Archmagister's tower.

Nils found J'zhirr not long after, also wandering around Tel Aruhn. They had only been anchored here a few hours and it was already dark outside. Too late to find the ruins. But not too late to try to rope J'zhirr into his expedition team, however futile his attempts may be.

"You think there might be one of those steam-men in there?"

"Steam-men? J'zhirr thinks you mean Steam centurions."

Nils nodded. His only source of information about the Dwemer had been from the sparse selection of books available on the topic in Cyrodiil. He had only read two books, and one was meant for children and the other was known to be notoriously inaccurate by any person with an education.

"Centurions, yes. But... aren't those the ones that roll up into a ball?"

"Ah, those are Sphere... centurions."

"What about the spiders?"

"Centurion spiders."

"Are they all called Centurions?"

J'zhirr shook his head grimly.

"Not the ash creatures."

His voice had taken a solemn tone, which was rare for J'zhirr. Nils did not dare interrupt. Hadn't the innkeeper just mentioned something about ash creatures in his trance? Or was it ash children...?

"Perhaps it is a good thing you do not know of the ash creatures. They were not always so common, but J'zhirr sees them sometimes, when he goes too deep into a ruin in the ashlands. Khajiit sees different kinds of ash creatures. Mer with holes where their eyes should be. Ghouls with the many-eyed face of an insect, with long tubes in place of their mouth. Naked things hurrying from one room to the next, unaware of anything but the voices in their head, stacking a tower from tables and chairs... Khajiit knows better than to fight such madness."

Nils swallowed. These creatures sounded worse than anything he had ever fought before. And he had thought cliff racers were the scourge of Vvardenfell.

 _'The ash-children carve out their own eyes so that they may look upon Lord Dagoth...'_

 _'Mer with holes where their eyes should be...'_

Those words in particular now stuck in his mind.

"You... do you think I will find such creatures in Rthalzeft?"

J'zhirr grinned, keeping a hand on Nils' shoulder.

"Never worry. J'zhirr only sees ash creatures in the ruins close to Red Mountain. Everything is scary close to Red Mountain. J'zhirr sees firsthand that Ghostfence doesn't keep everything contained. But it keeps most of it. And look at where we are!"

J'zhirr emphasized his point by gesturing grandly at the mushroom towers, the shimmering water surrounding the island, and the clear night sky with the bright stars visible.

"We could not be further from Red Mountain!"

"I still don't know if I feel safe going alone..." Nils admitted. That interaction with the innkeeper alone had left him unsettled, especially hearing about the ash creatures.

J'zhirr tugged at Nils' shirt.

"Why did you not ask Khajiit?"

"Well... last night, you seemed disinterested. I only thought you wouldn't want to-"

"Khajiit does not believe exploring your ruins would be pleasant. Khajiit has several ideas for more pleasant ways he can spend the morrow while the ship is still anchored. But J'zhirr wants to go, only because it is with Nils."

Nils found himself smiling at that.

"Thank you, J'zhirr. Let's check it out tomorrow morning."


	11. Rthalzeft Entrance

**Rthalzeft Entrance.**

It was the third day of Hearthfire, 3E 427.

Two years, ten months, and three days.

That was how long Zaryth Velani had been waiting for this.

After meticulously taking daily notes on the patterns of rising and falling sea levels in Zafirbel Bay, she had surmised that today was the day the tide would be low enough to grant her access to a hidden entrance in the submerged ruins of Rthalzeft.

She was even prepared for the event that she would not find the codices she was looking for in Rthalzeft. Zaryth could rest knowing that she had more than enough original research to write a dissertation on charting tidal patterns by the stars, and how the positioning of Masser and Secunda directly correlated to oceanic anomalies. That enough was already a genius breakthrough and should keep her name relevant within the scholarly circles or at least get that condescending Raven Omayn off her back... not like she concerned herself with the opinions of lesser minds. She was apprentice to Divayth Fyr! Why would she want to be the Mouth to some lowly councilor anyways? Master Fyr was not on the Telvanni Council for a reason. He was above their petty squabbles.

Zaryth didn't care that it meant she would never advance in rank in House Telvanni. While they practiced their destruction spells on mudcrabs, Zaryth had the resources to do incredible research none of them could even dream of. She had been a major contributor in several of Master Fyr's studies. The most recent had been a failed endeavor in the domestication of lesser Daedra. Zaryth herself had the idea to housebreak a scamp and train him to fetch stoneflowers and other alchemy reagents for her, but it met an untimely end at the sword of an ignorant guard.

Oh, but after today, there would be no more jeers, no more whispers behind her back. If she found the secret of the disappearance of the dwarves in the codices she was looking for, they would be begging her to accept a position on the council. Zaryth would refuse, of course. She had far better things to do than involve herself in their silly politics. Having her own tower might be nice, though.

Zaryth had left Tel Aruhn just before the crack of dawn, and only now she saw a sliver of sun peeking up from the horizon line. The glassy waters were deceptively calm; she knew that slaughterfish lurked below. This was not something she wanted to swim, no. She was no idiot.

She cast a water-walking spell on herself and made her way towards a long sandbar in the distance. Zaryth grinned when she could see the tips of the gold-bronze spires in the distance piercing through the water. The sea levels were so low, it was perfect!

With the spell active she had to walk quickly, her feet only barely gracing the surface of the water and breaking the smoothness with slight ripples.

However, as she drew near, Zaryth could already make out the outline of two loiterers already on the sandbar. And - Zaryth resisted the urge to scream - they were definitely messing with the hatch.

Oh, what a cruel, cruel joke. Some ignorant miscreants had managed to beat her to the ruins only out of sheer luck. How could they possibly know anything about this place? This was the only day that particular entrance would be exposed! Ordinarily one would have to swim below the depths and would only be able to access the part of the ruins that had long been plundered and turned into a hideout for Azura-knows-what.

This section, this little escape hatch had been inaccessible for... over two years, ten months, and three days. Without factoring in lunar anomalies (or another volcanic eruption), the conditions would not be so ideal for another three years, two months, and twenty-seven days!

The nerve! The audacity! Did they not realize that _some_ people were able to appreciate the historical value of these artifacts they so carelessly pilfered?

She had the mind to scare them off with a grand display of magic, but she realized she could use this situation to her benefit.

After all, even without the extra weight of water pressure, that hatch would certainly prove difficult to open on her own unless she used the help of fortifying magics.

As soon as her magicka recovered she took a deep breath and cast a full invisibility spell. The effect lowered her body temperature and slowed her heart rate. Zaryth drew closer to the entrance, trying hard not to let her shoes make too much noise in the shoals. When she could hear their voices she cast a muffle spell to take care of her own sand.

Why every thief did not bother to learn rudimentary Illusion magic was beyond her. Were Zaryth so inclined to that 'profession,' she was certain she could swipe an amulet off the neck of Queen Barenziah herself!

She saw the distinct glint of dwarven metal. If Zaryth were to lay herself down that would be about equal to the diameter of the door, though she knew that beneath all the sand, algae, and seaweed there was another tower.

Zaryth waited eagerly, watching the thieves do the hard part for her as they both struggled with the hatch wheel, turning it counterclockwise. She didn't even have to do the hard part! These thieves were about to open it for her!

But how would she get rid of the pests after they opened the hatch? She narrowed her eyes, examining them.

One was a Khajiit, though he only looked slightly less mangy than any ordinary Khajiit she would see at the slave market. Obviously a thief. If a Khajiit wasn't a slave, he had to be a thief. Or a merchant, which in their case was always analogous to thief judging by their outrageous prices and shoddy quality she had the misfortune of being subjected to. The other was a dark haired Dunmer, possibly a half-Dunmer with his lighter grey skin. He was unashamedly shirtless (truly, these outlanders never learn that no one wishes to see their exposed bodies) and water was dripping off his chest. His body was lean, but with a decent physique and well-defined muscles that were all the more prominent as he continued to strain against the hatch wheel. He looked familiar... Still invisible, Zaryth took a few steps forward so that she could see their faces.

 _No. No._ This had to be a cruel joke. It was that arrogant _s'wit_ she met in Sadrith Mora!

Zaryth couldn't be bothered to remember the name of every impudent peasant that decided to pester her on the streets unwarranted, but she believed his name was something like... Hlervu? She _knew_ he had been after the ruins. He _was_ a common thief after all!

The Khajiit held a hand up, stepping away from the hatch and looking right in Zaryth's direction. The 'Hlervu' man wiped sweat off his forehead.

"Be still. Khajiit knows we are not alone. See the stranger's footsteps on the sand?"

Zaryth had too much dignity to continue skulking around like some ne'er-do-well, and she allowed her invisibility spell to fade.

She stood up tall. Or at least as tall as she could stand, which wasn't quite as tall as either of them were.

"Halt, thieves!" she cried. She readied a fireball in one upturned hand. Both men stared. Awestruck, no doubt, at Zaryth's ability.

"Hold your hands up. Explain yourselves, and I _may_ let you live."

The two looked at each other, sheepishly raising their hands above their heads. They did not seem to appear particularly threatened, not even when she used fire, something universally understood as dangerous. Truly, they were even more idiotic than she originally thought.

"Ah, Khajiit meant no harm. We are here because..."

The Khajiit did not finish his sentence. Couldn't even think of a proper excuse. Now that she had caught them in the act, there was no going back for them.

Zaryth extinguished the fireball in her hand. Destruction magic was not exactly her specialty, and it was draining her precious magicka. Despite her repulsion at the situation, she did not feel like killing them today. They didn't exactly seem violent, and she still needed them to finish opening the entrance to Rthalzeft for her. Killing people... that seemed to be a rather nasty business, too. She hadn't ever done something like that before, unless one counted bandits and some vampires in Druscashti that had nearly killed her. With Illusion magic it was fairly easy for her to avoid most encounters.

"I ought to report you both to Telvanni authorities. It may have been the Empire that made the unregulated trade of Dwemer artifacts illegal, but we don't appreciate outlanders poking around our ruins, either."

The Dunmer who called himself Hlervu stepped forward.

" _Muthsera_ Velani. I assure you this is all a misunderstanding. Might I mention that it is a pleasure to see you again?"

Liar. Fraud. She wouldn't believe anything he said. His voice sounded different, too. He spoke like an Imperial. Morag Tong! Ha! He had actually thought he could fool her with that nonsense. What a joke.

As the Dunmer presented a low, exaggerated bow that nigh goaded Zaryth into hitting him she noticed a very small tattoo above his left pectoral, just below the clavicle.

 _N.V._

 _*2-12-396_

 _M_

How very curious... it was, of course, etched in that artless Cyrodilic font, but Zaryth couldn't help but wonder what it meant. The second line appeared to be a date of birth, with the number twelve corresponding to the month of Evening Star. That meant the tattoo was purely a form of identification. Did these Imperials brand their prisoners in such a way? The Dunmer of Morrowind were not so barbaric. They only branded their slaves.

"It means I'm a dangerous criminal."

The Dunmer said this with utter nonchalance, noticing that her eyes had lingered a bit too long at the tattoo. The Khajiit immediately burst into a fit of hysterics, attempting to suppress it by covering his mouth with his hands unsuccessfully. Soon "Hlervu" was infected by the idiocy and they both couldn't contain themselves with laughter.

Imbeciles.

"Quiet," she said sharply. They did not seem to hear. She repeated her command with greater volume. Still, they continued their laughter. Why - why wouldn't they listen to her? She was a powerful Telvanni sorceress! They ought to be on their knees! Oh, how were the others able to command the respect that she couldn't?

"He's- he's so dangerous, he eats raw ash yams – for breakfast!" breathed the Khajiit between bursts of laughter.

Did they have guar refuse in place of brains? Or did they not realize she could destroy them both right now if she wanted to? It would only take her one spell. Paralysis. Roll them into the water. If they didn't drown, the slaughterfish would eat them alive. One, two, dead. Or if she were feeling particularly creative, she could use one of the summon scrolls Master Fyr had given her. Then all she would have to do was sit back and watch a Dremora tear off their limbs and devour their hearts.

When they refused to cease their insolent laughter for the third time, Zaryth held a hand up and a pale green light surrounded the two men. A simple Sound spell ought to be enough to control two amateur thieves.

"Do you hear somethi – nggh!"

Their faces twisted in pain. They held their hands over their ears, but it did nothing to muffle the noise. The nature of Illusion spells involved a distortion of individual perception, rather than a manipulation of the existing physics. Zaryth heard absolutely none of that horrid noise while the two men groaned, forced to listen to a roaring cacophony of dissonant scraping and ringing. She couldn't help but smile to herself with satisfaction. To think of how many mages focused so much of their time on Destruction magic. Of course, there were many wizards who could make a great show with fire and lightning, but with hardly any magicka at all Zaryth had just brought two grown men to their knees.

When the spell wore off, the miscreants shakily stood back up on their feet, clearly not used to the effects of such a spell.

"Are you going to listen to what I tell you now?" she asked.

"You never told us what you wanted us to do," said the Dunmer, stretching his arms out in some inane gesture as if he suddenly were sore.

Zaryth scowled. Perhaps she hadn't. She had allowed her temper to get the better of her, but never again. She would be calm, collected, and authoritative. That was how Divayth Fyr commanded respect with those who did not immediately hold him in high esteem.

"Open the door, or I will call the guards."

It wasn't really a door. It was actually an escape hatch at the very top of the mostly-submerged tower which by her educated guess was an alternate entrance to Rthalzeft's lift, but she had to keep her orders simple so that they would understand. They probably didn't even know what a lift was.

The Dunmer had the gall to speak to her again.

"Isn't that... what we were doing before you interrupted us?"

"J'zhirr feels the need to mention that we could call the guards on you, as well. Unless you have an excavation permit to show Khajiit? J'zhirr worked for East Empire company. He knows."

Zaryth felt a surge of anger, but she remembered to remain calm. Calm. Collected. If she had the patience to master summoning an Aureal, she could muster the patience to humor a pair of fools.

"Just... open the door."

Imbeciles.

"J'zhirr thinks it is not a door. A hatch is a better-suited term. Ah! This tower may have been a lift. J'zhirr has seen a few ruins. He knows of these things. Many ruins have a lift, powered by steam, so that the Dwemer did not have to climb."

Zaryth's eyes lit up when the Khajiit showed even the slightest bit of interest in the ruins. Forgetting where she was, she began to speak rapidly, as if these were ideas had been bubbling inside of her for a very long time. Truly, she had been dying to speak to _someone_ about it. Someone who wasn't an ancient wizard that already _knew_ all of this.

"Yes! I thought the same. It's definitely a lift. Or rather, the escape hatch leading to a lift. I have yet to see a functional one, but don't you think it's amazing to imagine how the Dwemer invented all of this thousands of years ago, while we're still out here riding giant insects from town to town? I have an idea – not just any baseless assumption, mind, but a working theory from my countless findings in other ruins. I believe that at one point, before the eruption of Red Mountain, all of the ruins across Vvardenfell were interconnected by a complex subterranean system of tunnels and lifts. I've been searching, but it has become impossible to delve that deep underground in many places because of the magma."

Both the Dunmer and the Khajiit stared first at each other, then back at Zaryth. She continued to share her knowledge uninterrupted, hands gesturing vividly to illustrate her points.

"I have a very important contact in Tel Fyr who would certainly have the answer, but his condition has woefully been worsening and he isn't always up for conversation. However, during my exploration of other ruins I've actually managed to get my hands on a few blueprints that corroborate my theory. This particular citadel, what they called Rthalzeft, looks to have been one of the major 'hubs' from where one might enter this system through the lift. I've been told that the Dwemer ruins in Skyrim are also rumored to be interconnected, _with_ lifts that still function! It's because their geography has allowed their ruins to remain mostly intact, but that also includes all of their animunculi, not to mention some other unknown horrors that still lurk in the darkness, which make spelunking far more difficult. It's absolutely incredible to think about the sheer ingenuity though, isn't it?"

The pair had been grinning at her as though she said something ridiculous.

She couldn't begin to imagine what they thought was so funny, but her cheeks felt slightly hotter as she realized she had forgotten she was supposed to be intimidating.

"Don't- don't just stand there and gawk! Get back to work!" she commanded.

The two were obviously suppressing laughter as they went back to pulling open the hatch.

"Yes, of course, _muthsera._ "

"Let Khajiit know if orders change, mistress."

Finally, _finally_ the pair had managed to pull the hatch open with a terrible squealing sound of machinery that had been in dire need of oil for at least two thousand years. The hatch revealed a gaping black hole. She trembled with anticipation.

The three of them gazed down into the dark abyss. It was pitch black.

Zaryth dropped a pebble down the hole.

In silence they listened. One, two, three, four seconds later they heard a distant splash. Incredible!

"That's a long way down," the outlander remarked uselessly.

"Yes. Your insight is magnificent," she responded dryly.

She used some of her magicka to create an orb of bluish light, allowing it to drop into the hole. It floated slowly down, down, down, illuminating the metal rungs that lined the shaft.

The light revealed the entryway to another room halfway down the portion of the shaft that was still visible to them. The orb began to flicker, and when it had drifted so far down that they could only see a tiny pinprick of light, it faded completely into the darkness.

"Well... only one direction to go!" said the Khajiit cheerfully. He seemed to be having fun. Zaryth imagined it wasn't every day that they were accompanied by a powerful sorcerer on their ordinary plunders. They would have to learn to show her some respect, but maybe it would be prudent to venture through as a group.

Zaryth cast another light spell and attached it to herself so that the sphere would hover at her shoulder. She rolled up her sleeves and fearlessly clambered onto the metal rungs, leading the descent downwards.

* * *

 **A/N:** I feel I have to apologize for an oversight that is too late now to correct. I created Rthalzeft because I foolishly did not know that there already was a Dwemer ruin completely submerged underwater in Morrowind (Mudan!) until yesterday. And I thought I had explored everything in that game... learn something new every day, I suppose! Also I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who is following and reading my story, with a huge thanks to Maximsk for helping me tremendously with his invaluable feedback and enthusiasm. If you are reading it helps me a lot if you leave a review! I appreciate all sorts of feedback, including the critical kind, because that is how I can improve! In any case, thank you all for reading; the story will only get better from here!


	12. What the Darkness Hides

**A/N:** I've taken the liberty of creating a few Dwemeris words of my own. I know Akkadian derivatives appear to be the fan-preferred substitute, but I'm mostly drawing from Baltic languages, including old Prussian and Latvian. I apologize if any Latvian speakers happen to be reading my story; your language is so much lovelier than the distorted amalgam I am presenting (truly I am very sorry).

* * *

 **Rthalzeft.**

After the slow, careful climb down the rungs of the empty shaft of the abandoned lift, Nils, Zaryth, and J'zhirr found themselves in a long corridor about halfway down.

Everything was so preserved, so pristine. Nils could even hear the faint whir of machinery. Were these ruins actually abandoned?

"This place feels... alive," he said.

Zaryth quickly piped up.

"Of course it does. I've often come across animunculi that have remained completely intact after thousands of years. Not to mention all sorts of unsavory ilk one might find lurking in other ruins. Vampires, ash monsters and the like. But Rthalzeft is so inaccessible I don't foresee us running into anything like that."

"We can only hope," said Nils with unease, still not entirely convinced that there was nothing to fear in this place. Even the twisting myriad of pipes that lined every wall unsettled him. Zaryth had told them earlier that they had been in place to siphon heat all the way from Red Mountain.

Despite his fascination to explore this piece of history, there was this inexplicable feeling about this place and he almost began to regret dragging J'zhirr out here.

" _Nerevar..._ "

The voice was barely a whisper. Nils looked around. No one else was reacting to it, meaning that only he had heard it. Or it wasn't real to start with.

Was he losing his mind?

Suddenly he realized that Zaryth's orb of light had traveled a bit far ahead of him. He jogged to catch up to the others.

Probably nothing. Just nerves.

They reached a round door at the end of the hallway. Zaryth ran a finger along the engraved plaque above it, reading the lettering.

"Foundry... _darbszelts?_ I'm not entirely certain of that last word, but... judging by the context I think it may correspond to the name they had for their metal, of which our language has no direct translation. That, or it refers to some kind of currency, something of value. Goldwork Foundry, maybe?" she said, wording it as a question as if waiting for someone to correct her. No one did, for they did not know Dwemeris.

"You can read that?" Nils asked, admittedly impressed. The girl was arrogant, yes, childishly so, but it was clear that she was knowledgeable, especially when it came to the Dwemer.

"Well... I can transcribe the lettering, yes. I only have a fairly elementary understanding of the language itself, mind. And I'm hopeless when it comes to colloquialisms."

Nils could tell that she seemed genuinely validated at his acknowledgment of her expertise. J'zhirr on the other hand took it as an opportunity to bait Zaryth into making another racist comment, as it had amused him greatly to do so during their long trek down the chute.

"J'zhirr thinks a foundry of gold sounds nice, yes. Khajiit likes gold."

Zaryth rolled her eyes. She had caught on to his antics by now.

Nils was about to ask her the meaning of the symbol on the coin he had shown her in Sadrith Mora, but then he watched as she pulled a vial of blue liquid from her satchel, drinking half of it. He hadn't realized that she did not have an infinite supply of magicka to maintain that orb of light. Perhaps it was best that they moved along, as they would certainly be at an inconvenience without her light spell. He could always ask her later.

Pushing through the heavy doors of the 'Goldwork Foundry' was a mill or factory of some sort, all contained in this enormous chamber.

Zaryth held a hand up before they continued.

"Wait," she whispered.

The 'Foundry' was still functional. The complex system of gears and pulleys overhead continued to move. Over the steady, repetitive sound of the steam-contraptions and the vibrating from the massive machinery in motion, Nils heard what sounded like tiny metal legs clattering against the floor.

A spider centurion.

"Khajiit thinks we will be fine. It is just a spider. Nils has a big sword with him. Not the best for smashing, but it will do." J'zhirr whispered.

"You forget that you're not traveling with Walde and her big axe," Nils retorted.

"She goes through them like cream. You will be fine."

He wasn't certain if he liked the idea of others depending on him to take care of an ancient Dwarven construct he had never dealt with before. Not only that, his sword wasn't exactly meant for smashing and he didn't think Imperial steel would hold up very well against Dwemer metal.

"But why would we want to _destroy_ it? It is in pristine condition! It still performs the tasks it had been created for." Zaryth whispered. Nils thought she seemed too excited about all of this.

Then he saw it.

Indeed, the animunculus used one of its spindly appendages to pull a crank, which moved a block of casts through a long conveyer. It stretched one of its other arms to operate a lever. The lever controlled a massive crucible overhead, which, were it not empty, would be pouring molten metal into a funnel which directed it into the casts. The spider scuttled to the other end of the assembly line and pulled another lever, which pressed an engraving die against the molds. At the end of the line the molds were emptied into a large metal bin, which was already filled with Dwemer coins.

So the Goldwork Foundry was a currency mint. Even though the furnace no longer siphoned the heat from Red Mountain and there was no liquid metal in the crucible, the machinery worked perfectly and the mechanical spider continued to work uninterrupted as it had been for thousands of years. Nils had no words for it. Incredible. Astounding. If the Dwemer had not met an early end he had no doubt their people would have been able to dominate all of Tamriel by now. Instead of the Septim Dynasty they all would have been ruled under the dynasty of some Dwarven king.

"We can sneak past it easily. As long as its work isn't interrupted, it won't see us as a threat."

Zaryth sounded like she had done this before, and Nils was inclined to believe her. They crept along the wall, careful not to make a sound. Zaryth dimmed the light from her spell, though it did not seem to bother the spider so much either way.

It was J'zhirr who could not resist the temptation to surreptitiously swipe a handful of golden coins from a nearby chest and stuff it into his pocket. He was so swift that he made no detectable sounds and Nils would not have noticed had he not been in front of him, but as if the arachnid worker had been programmed to detect thieves, suddenly the pulleys and gears went still. The centurion spider had immediately stopped operating the machine. All they heard now was the clinking of mechanical legs as it scurried towards them with violent intent.

Zaryth reacted instantly. She jumped in front of the others into a forward lunge on one knee, whipping her hand out, waiting until it was a mere finger width away from her. Nils heard the crackling of static as she sent a small burst of electricity towards the spider. The spark overloaded the automaton's machinery and it fell on its back, arms and legs twitching a moment before it ceased movement altogether.

"I should have known better than to trust a Khajiit not to steal!" Zaryth shouted. She glared at J'zhirr with contempt. The Khajiit shrugged his shoulders.

"Khajiit fails to see a problem. Spider is dead, yes?"

"Sheogorath's beard, _no!_ I've worked on these models before. I know how to overload their sensors to disable them, though I'd never... applied it in that way before. _Ordinarily_ I'm not so idiotic as to provoke one into attack. They may look unassuming compared to other centurions, but you saw how effortlessly it operated that big machine. Think of how much easier it would be to tear your arms and legs out of their sockets," she hissed.

Though the precocious Telvanni girl spoke with unnecessary vitriol as always, Nils would agree that J'zhirr should not have risked dismemberment by eight spindly metal limbs for a handful of Dwemer coins.

"J'zhirr offers his apologies. He usually travels with a big Nord, who smashes things like that."

Even Nils let out an annoyed sigh at that. J'zhirr's constant attempts at provocations were beginning to get old.

Zaryth shook her head solemnly. "I'll pretend I never heard you confess to that horrible crime against historical preservation."

Nils took a few coins for himself now that the threat of mechanical spiders no longer patrolled the foundry.

Moving to a closed door at the end of the room, Nils still felt the pressure of doubt in his chest. He could not quite place it, but there was no denying he had a disturbed feeling about all of this.

"What does the sign say?" asked Nils cautiously. "I mean... we don't want to walk into a room that says 'live arsenal' or 'centurion storage unit' do we?" He still had this looming feeling of danger about this place, but it had nothing to do with the spider centurion.

Zaryth moved the light in front of her and squinted at the sign on the door, sounding out each syllable.

" _Uzthureznas_... Residence... _zaal_ – Halls of Residence! That sounds safe enough!"

J'zhirr was just as eager, though more so because the treasures they had found thus far were of pristine condition. They could make a fortune if they could find the right buyer for the coins alone.

"We should turn back soon. It's a long way up," Nils mentioned with futility.

J'zhirr laughed.

"Khajiit does not understand. Were you not the one who wanted to come in the first place? Is the _dangerous_ criminal afraid?" he teased playfully.

He was right. By the Divines, he was right. It had been Nils' idea to come here, but only because of some stupid coin that a cryptic Daedric prince told him was important somehow. What did Azura say to him again? That it would bring him closer to the truth? What truth? What did it matter? It all seemed foolhardy now, and as they delved deeper, the dread became even more palpable. At this point Nils was ready to leave. It was not out of cowardice, and certainly not because of the ordeal with the spider. He felt there was truly something deeply, fundamentally _wrong_ with this place.

The others did not share his sentiment, and he stood back as he watched Zaryth and J'zhirr pull open the round metal doors to the Halls of Residence.

The hall was narrow and claustrophobic compared to the Goldwork Foundry they had just come from. The sleeping quarters likely housed the workers of the Foundry. There were ten beds in this room in total; five pushed against one end of the wall and five on the opposite end. Even the dormitories looked neat and symmetrical...

J'zhirr darted around the room as he was wont to do. Before Nils could understand what he was looking for, suddenly J'zhirr had begun to crawl on all fours under a bed, emerging with an ornate chest. He hopped back to his feet, wiping the dust from his fur.

"Can you pick the lock?" Nils asked J'zhirr, knowing that the Khajiit usually carried a few lockpicking tools.

J'zhirr shook his head.

"Dwemer locks are complex. Too many subtle grooves on the keys. Khajiit does not wish to set off a trap."

"The key must be around here somewhere," Nils said, searching aimlessly under sheets, under pillows, under beds. Zaryth began to search frantically as well, obviously wanting to get to the contents of the chest before the "thieves" had a chance to plunder it.

But J'zhirr had already taken his knife to the pillow at the head of the bed. The Dwemer definitely didn't stuff their pillows with feathers, Nils observed. He didn't even know what that sand-like substance was that poured out of it. Was that even comfortable?

"Found it," purred the Khajiit, grinning at having won the unspoken contest. He inserted the curious cylindrical key inside of the lock and all three of them hovered over the chest as they heard the gears inside turning.

When the lid sprang open, the chest definitely contained some notable treasure. A purse of coins, a sealed glass jar of Sload soap, and a pearl-encrusted hairpiece. J'zhirr reached for the hair piece and coinpurse while Zaryth immediately snatched away the Sload soap, a rare alchemy ingredient in these parts. But Nils was quick to grab what he saw underneath.

A simple book, a slim volume, perhaps only about a hundred pages. The beige front cover was bound with a soft leathery material. The cover was mostly unadorned save for a single large symbol in the center with a much less prominent subtitle below it.

But the only thing about the book that had caught his immediate attention was that the symbol on the front cover was exactly the same as the one on his coin, the one that had brought him here in the first place.

Zaryth's eyes were now on Nils, and so was her wrath.

"What do you think you're doing? Give that here – you can't even read it!"

She was right. Nils wordlessly handed it to her.

"What does it say?" he asked quickly.

"The symbol is just a letter, a syllable – meaningless if transcribed literally. But prose, even Dwemer prose, is always rife with metaphor. In their oculories, the Dwemer used letters to represent the twelve constellations along with other celestial bodies. This particular character, if I recall correctly, corresponds to the cosmic anomaly that we ignorantly believe to be the thirteenth Serpent constellation, though the Dwemer theorized that the cluster was not made up of actual stars but what they called un-stars – "

"I was born under the sign of the Serpent," Nils said quietly.

Is this what Azura wanted him to find? Or was she simply toying with him for her own idle amusement?

"Fascinating," Zaryth answered drolly. "So are countless others when the Serpent decides to slither its way into the sky every now and again. Supposedly the Nerevarine would be born on such a day, if you believe in that Ashlander nonsense."

Nerevarine... _Nerevar._

"Listen, Zaryth, I don't care about anything else in these ruins. If – if there is any way that you can translate that book – "

Nils expected her to respond with some rude comment about how she didn't owe him any favors, or that he was a stupid outlander who couldn't comprehend it, but to his surprise she nodded in agreement.

"When we get out of here, I'll see what I can do. I suppose you're staying somewhere in Tel Aruhn?"

Before they knew it they had begun walking down another corridor, though two more rooms that were identical to the last dormitory.

"You could say that. We're... not going to be staying much longer."

"Oh? Might I inquire where you're – "

All three of them stopped where the path ended. Now they faced a forked end. The writing on the wall was not carefully engraved in the Dwemer writing, but roughly painted in the very familiar Daedric lettering that could be seen almost everywhere in Morrowind. At least this was something Nils could read, though after he was finished he immediately wished he hadn't read it in the first place.

 _Chanthrax blight ash woe blight brown rot rotbone bonelord but the bones of our ancestors in their tombs were defiled only ASH remains all turns to ASH but from ASH we are born_

 _LORD DAGOTH_

 _the unmourned House lies not in ruins_

 _the sky is RED with the blessing of DAGOTH UR_

Along the corridor on the left someone had scrawled the same name over again, their writing gradually becoming more crude and unintelligible, the paint dripping.

 ** _DAGOTH DAGOTH DAGOTH DAGOTH DAGOTH DAGOTH DGHOT DAHGTO DOGATH DATHOG DAHTOG DHATGO DOGTHA DAOGTH DGGTH DTTTHH DDDGGGTHH_**

"I think we should leave..." Nils whispered. He felt ill, his thoughts being confirmed that something was horribly wrong with this place. This had to be the work of those ash creatures J'zhirr told him about.

"My thoughts exactly," answered Zaryth. They all turned around, with Nils stuck in the rear as they briskly headed back towards the direction they came from.

He swore he saw something in his peripheral vision.

The moment he dared to turn around he saw it, he saw the _thing_ that skulked behind them so silently.

The ash-creature. It was a ghoulish thing, something that at one point may have been a Dunmer. Its body was emaciated, dark flesh clinging to bone. It had the pointed ears of a mer and a hole carved where its face should have been; no eyes, no mouth, only an insectoid proboscis protruding from that hole. With its skeletal hands it reached for Nils, though his reflexes were thankfully fast enough upon seeing something so horrifying and he quickly dodged out of the way.

"Run!" he shouted to the others. His arm reached for his longsword from his back and he brandished it in front of him defensively, backing away from the ash-creature down the corridor.

 _"I have no mother I have no father I am REBORN from ash I was not born of flesh..."_

Its voice was like a death rattle. The thing was speaking. It had no mouth. How was it speaking?

When the creature raised its arms to ready a spell, Nils slashed quicker than the thing could cast. He chopped the arm clean off, and Nils discovered that it bled ash. Some of the ash got into his eyes and he tried to blink it out quickly, but not before the thing managed to swipe its clawlike hand at Nils' right shoulder, tearing through his tunic. It was not going to be an ordinary wound, he could already tell from the caustic, scathing feeling seeping through his skin and into his bloodstream, but he ignored this pain for now.

He had managed to back the creature all the way into the Foundry where the other two were waiting, watching in horror. Now it was easier to move around and Nils could risk a bold attack.

He felt particularly brave and heaved the sword with a heavy grunt, slashing at the thing's neck in an attempt to behead it. In Cyrodiil, that was one effective way to get rid of an undead creature.

Indeed, its head did come off, immediately disintegrating into a pile of ash on the floor. But if the body had been aware that its head was missing, it did not show it for it continued to stalk towards them unhindered. These creatures were not like the undead in Cyrodiil, that was certain.

The headless, one-armed ghoul readied another destruction spell.

Nils immediately leaped out of the way of the ash-ghoul's lightning. The electricity crackled and the stray bolt bounced across the room, and to everyone's surprise it landed on the disabled spider centurion. It sparked back to life, leaping to its feet. But the spider did not wait a moment longer when it perceived the genuine threat in the room. Unfortunately, that threat happened to be engaged in combat with Nils, and the automaton treated them as the same entity, leaping forward with its eight splayed limbs. Both of them were pinned to the ground, at the mercy of an unlikely arachnid adversary. Thankfully it seemed to be focusing on the ash ghoul right now and managed to tear a hole in its chest and spill more ash on the floor, though with another devastating lightning spell the ash ghoul overloaded the spider yet again. The construct shook violently and Nils could hear the rattling of loose gears inside of it. It clattered to the ground. Broken.

Nils had no time to pick up his sword when the ash creature clutched his neck with its remaining hand. Its fingernails were like tiny knives digging into his throat and he found it hard to breathe. He felt his life energy draining out of him... this was bad.

He found himself backing up through the narrow corridor, and he didn't have time to look behind him to see how close he was to the very long and painful drop that soon awaited him. If he could just pry himself free...

Nils felt something pulsating. A steady heartbeat.

The ash creature's heart! The Dwarven spider had opened a wound into the creature's chest!

Nils' vision was growing cloudier by the second but he forced his hand through the thing's chest cavity. Deeper, deeper he had to force his hand, its insides turning to ash as he bore a deeper hole through. His hand closed onto something solid, something pulsating. With all of his remaining strength, Nils pulled the ash-creature's heart out from its chest.

Then it all happened so fast. The ghoul released its grip on Nils' throat and crumpled into ash in front of him. He heard the creature's dying word in his head.

 _"Nerevar..."_

From the momentum of ripping out the ghoul's heart, Nils' foot caught the edge where the corridor ended and the precarious drop into nothingness began.

And then there was nothing below his feet and he was falling, but not before he saw the end of the ash ghoul and the horrified faces of Zaryth and J'zhirr looking down at him.

And then Nils only saw the shrinking pinprick of light from Zaryth's spell as his body plummeted helplessly downwards.

Nils squeezed the ghoul's heart still in his hand as he fell, feeling its heartbeat abruptly stop. Down, down, down. He closed his eyes.

Why did it have to end like this?

He thought of Azura's all-knowing little smile, the way she spoke to him like a mother speaking to a child. He clutched the heart even harder. Why did _she_ have to be the last thing he thought of before he died?

And then – suddenly – he stopped falling. But... he had not hit the floor. Nils opened his eyes, but he still could not see anything. He was suspended midair.

Had time just... frozen?

His body began to float upwards. Yes – float. He felt a wave of nausea and turned his head to the side to empty the contents of his stomach. The woozy thought in his head was that two thousand years from now his sick would be preserved for the next generation of adventurers to find.

He wasn't certain if he were even still alive, or if this were his ascent to the afterlife. He thought about murmuring a prayer to Arkay to guide him into the next plane, but decided against it. If an ash ghoul like the monster he had just faced was allowed to live, Arkay surely was not watching over this corner of Tamriel.

Slowly Nils continued to levitate up until he could see a tiny light come into focus. His vision was so blurry that it turned into a spectacular cascade of orbs.

Was he heading towards Aetherius? It was beautiful... he felt light, lighter than he had ever felt...

But then Nils squeezed the ghoul heart in his hand and understood that he was holding something tangible, something real.

He wasn't dead.

He was very much alive, and when his vision cleared he saw that he most certainly not was ascending to Aetherius but towards Zaryth's dimming light spell.

When Nils caught the edge of the entrance J'zhirr immediately helped him up. The levitation spell faded. He vaguely realized that Zaryth had cast it to save his life. He supposed he ought to thank her for that. But no words came out. His body felt too weak to stand, and J'zhirr helped prop him upright against the wall far a safe distance away from the ledge.

"J'zhirr will pay for as many drinks as you want when we return to Tel Aruhn. That was amazing!" the Khajiit said. Nils appreciated the gesture but drinking copious amounts of alcohol wasn't really the first thing on his mind right now.

"Just... need to rest a bit," Nils murmured, his vision still hazy as he had hardly any idea what was going on. He still had the ghoul heart in his hand, the trophy of his victory. Perhaps he should feel proud about it, but mostly he was just relieved that it was dead.

He saw Zaryth take an empty glass bottle from her bag and scrape as much of the ash-creature's remains into it as she could.

"J'zhirr does not judge, but he thinks that is disgusting," he heard the Khajiit remark.

"I'm sorry that you're so woefully ignorant. No, truly. I actually feel _bad_ that you didn't know these ash salts are a valuable alchemy reagent. Even if you don't care about alchemy, I'm sure you'd love nothing more than another opportunity to extort an unfortunate traveler out of their hard-earned gold..."

Their voices sounded so distant as they continued to prattle when Zaryth's light spell finally flickered into nothingness, plunging them all into an unsettling darkness.

"The light..." Nils said weakly, still not having recovered from the fog in his mind.

"I used all my magicka with the levitation spell. Drank all the potions I brought, too. We'll have to wait until I recover before we continue."

Her voice carried an audible tremor. Nils heard a rustle of skirts and he knew the girl had moved across the hallway to sit beside him. Nils did not understand. Was she afraid of the dark or something?

After all the horrors they had seen in this place, she chose to fear the darkness.

Strange child...

"You... you killed an ash ghoul! You actually killed that thing!" Zaryth exclaimed, the wonder still present in her voice. She had broken a long silence, during which Nils was pretty sure he had dozed off. He killed an ash ghoul. A blight creature. It was difficult for him to believe it, too. It all seemed surreal.

"Yes... I suppose I did, didn't I...?" he said, closing his eyes.

It was tiring just to talk. His head pounded, he felt a little sick, and he felt pain in many different parts of his body, but he was alive.

An exhausted smile spread across his face. He killed an ash ghoul. He had its disembodied heart in his hand to prove it. Nerevar, Dagoth Ur, Azura, the book... all of these thoughts could wait. For now, he had to take what little time he had to rest so that he would be able to make it out of here intact. That would be nice.


	13. A Mudcrab on the Blue Road

**A/N: My apologies to everyone for the hiatus. Finals took precedence over fanfic. I'm (mostly) back now, though I still have a lot going on so updates will likely be as erratic as my schedule is right now. Thank you for everyone still reading! I appreciate it a lot.**

* * *

 **Blue Road** **, Cyrodiil**

Nils was heading east along the Blue Road from the Imperial City towards Cheydinhal. The path seemed to divert in strange zig-zagging directions, and there were several forks and detours that he did not remember being there before. He had seen the same decrepit tree three times already and realized he must be going in circles. Even the signs were wrong. A wooden sign had an arrow pointing towards Cheydinhal, and another sign a few paces ahead directed him in the opposite way.

Eventually, he came across a mudcrab underneath one of these signs. The mudcrab was wise, and understood that he was lost because he was coming from a different point in time-space.

"You are guided by the lost objects of your memories, are you not?"

Nils looked down, and on the path he spotted a quill pen and a small well of blue ink. The inkwell had been a gift from his friend Octavia before she moved to the Imperial City, but he had hardly used it because he preferred black ink. He picked these items up and followed along the path. Continuing, Nils came across his old spyglass, a silver comb belonging to his sister, his mother's ebony dagger, and his father's old lute, the one that belonged to his father before him, a bard of local renown. Nils sometimes played the lute in his spare time, though he never sang. Yet now, when he tried to strum a few chords, the strings screeched with horrifying dissonance.

"Perhaps it is out of tune," squeaked the Mudcrab, skittering into his line of sight. "But you are nearly there! Do not stop now!"

Nils' pockets soon filled with trinkets, and his arms were full of the more unwieldy items, for he had picked up everything he saw on the path. Each piece filled him with warm memories of his family, his friends, and his hometown, and he grew more and more eager to return. The path ended at the start of the vertical face of a cliff, one that he knew he was expected to climb. Though there was a rope ladder that led straight up, he would have to drop the items he was carrying and empty his pockets of the extra weight to be able to ascend.

"Does this lead to Cheydinhal?" he asked.

"It leads you to your destiny. Perhaps Cheydinhal is part of it, perhaps not," answered the Mudcrab in its reedy voice.

Nils was confused.

"Did you not mean for me to collect these items?" he asked. These items were precious to him and the people he loved. "How can I carry them if I must climb the ladder?"

"How can you face your purpose if you are over-encumbered with memories? You can hardly remember their faces, yet you cling to these trinkets as if they will allow you to return to your old life."

"I don't understand." Nils looked down at himself. He was wearing the uniform of Cheydinhal's city guard. This _was_ his life.

"Then you are not yet ready to see the truth, my unwitting star-envoy."

There was only one being he knew who continuously used such bizarre epithets to refer to him instead of his name...

"Azura?"

The Mudcrab transformed into a beautiful, tall woman with ebony skin. The cosmos ebbed and flowed within the folds of her robe.

Azura smiled at Nils.

"Had you forgotten me so easily?" she asked in a mirthfully coquettish voice, placing a sculpted ebon hand over her chest as if he had deeply offended her. The void in her eyes seemed to be able to bore into his soul. He felt exposed, but he had difficulty turning away from her.

Nils felt a pain in his shoulder. He backed away from Azura, her presence becoming overwhelming. Everything went dark again.

* * *

 **Tel Aruhn, Apothecary Areleth.**

Nils' eyelids felt as though they were sewn shut. Had Azura truly visited him in his dream, or was she merely another fragment of his subconscious mind?

He inhaled through his nose, noting the mix of aromas that surrounded him. Bittergreen petals, dried mushrooms, Sload soap, shalk resin... he heard a liquid boiling somewhere close. He was at an apothecary. What had happened?

The Dwemer ruins. The ash-creature. Yes. He killed it. He killed it and survived. Zaryth prevented him from falling to sudden death. He remembered biting his tongue to stay awake as he made the excruciating ascent back up the shaft, nearly passing out several times if it weren't for the healing potions Zaryth had given him. He wasn't certain what happened when they reached the surface, but he must have fallen unconscious before they made it back to Tel Aruhn.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, he saw Alma standing over him, a neutral expression on her face. His vision cleared and he could make out in the background a sour-looking Dunmer wearing blue and yellow robes pacing the circular room. The boiling sound came from his alchemy station, where a fire was lit on the small stove to heat the mixture in a glass retort.

Alma's hands sparked with the soft glow of restoration magic as she guided the spell towards his wound. It felt warm, and his nerve endings tingled for a long moment afterward. Still, it eased the pain in his body immensely.

"Ah, you are awake, _sera._ Good. It is a rather unpleasant business to be forced to extract payment from a corpse."

Nils all but ignored the voice of the apothecary as Alma helped him into a seated position.

The apothecary walked over to his station, still focused on that bubbling solution in the retort.

"Ash salts and scrib jelly. _B'vek_ , it looks like she was right. Who would have known?" he murmured to himself, putting on a pair of thick gloves as he poured the substance into several narrow glass vials. Wordlessly, he handed one of the vials to Nils. It resembled tree sap in both its dark brown color and viscous consistency.

"What is this?" he asked hesitantly, not in the habit of drinking potions before he knew of their contents. He thought it rather odd of the apothecary to simply hand him the vial without explaining anything about it, or even telling him to drink it. The alchemist rolled his eyes, as if it were a burden to have to explain himself.

"It will prevent the Blight infection from spreading throughout the rest of your body. Your... verbose... companion supplied a large enough sample for me. She claims that the only way to make a potion against the Blight is to combine ash salts which do not occur in nature, with common scrib jelly found in most kitchen larders. She claimed I should believe her because she is apprentice to Master Divayth Fyr. I was looking forward to decrying this arrogant child as a fraud until seeing the results of this mixture, for only one who works so closely with those suffering from Blight and Corprus diseases would know how to easily concoct such a thing. She told the truth. What a remarkable shame that Master Fyr has employed such a frivolous, infantile apprentice. It is painfully apparent that the sum of all her 'knowledge' merely consists of secondhand gleanings from one of the greatest living Telvanni Wizard-Lord's notes. Have you seen her ostentatious Khajiit servant? The audacity, to adorn him in extravagant colors and allow him to talk back to her like that... unheard of..."

He was just as long-winded as Zaryth. Nils tuned out the bitter ramblings of the apothecary and drank the elixir. It was still warm, and tasted a bit chalky, but it was surprisingly sweet. He remembered that Zaryth had ardently collected the remains of the Ash Ghoul he had killed, and the irony was not lost on him when he realized that the same thing that nearly wounded him had inadvertently become his cure. He was even more grateful to the eccentric Telvanni now than ever. The apothecary, however, seemed to have taken offense at the fact that a young apprentice barely out of adolescence knew something about alchemy that he didn't. It didn't help that Zaryth's pretentious attitude tended to clash with most people. Yet even judging by his brief interactions of the other members of House Telvanni he had already come across, such as this apothecary and his deflated ego, Nils was beginning to understand that Zaryth's casual contempt was her only way to survive in an unfriendly culture that encouraged competition and animosity.

The apothecary had gone back to his alchemy station, still muttering to himself about how apprentices needed to learn their place and respect their elders.

Nils looked up at Alma, who was sitting on a stool by his bedroll, idly turning the pages of a worn book on restoration magic. Despite how frigid she had been to him recently, here she was, tending to him. It could be because of her obligation as a priestess of the Tribunal, but the more he watched her, the more he caught her stealing anxious glances at him. There was something odd going on with her. Something troubling. He wished he could help her, but how could he help when she refused to speak to him?

"I know I saw you yesterday, but I feel we've been apart a long while. Are you feeling alright?" he asked the priestess, eyebrows knitting together in concern.

Alma held her thumb inside the book to keep her spot as she looked up at Nils. She was sitting closer than he realized, and the narrow pupils in her red eyes dilated slightly. She gave him that empty, almost condescending smile again. All healers seemed to know to use that one when dealing with the public. It was their way of not allowing their emotions to interfere with work. Nils sighed, laying his head back down on the bedroll.

"Where did J'zhirr and Zaryth go?" Nils asked, loud enough so that the apothecary could hear him.

"The apprentice and her servant? Do I look like I have the time to keep track of every self-important whelp that waltzes through my door? Luckily I did overhear a little bit of what they were saying, and I believe they went to that eyesore of an East Empire Company ship to discuss something clandestine with a Captain... some type of exotic bird... was it Raven? Lark?"

Nils wasn't sure what Zaryth and J'zhirr needed to discuss with Captain Lark. Surely Zaryth wasn't considering joining their crew? He could already imagine that thought inspiring an outburst about how shocking it was for him to even _suggest_ that a Telvanni mage of her merit take part in such an unscrupulous operation.

Still, the pain in his shoulder had mostly subsided and he didn't feel all that ill (even if the apothecary assured him that he had contracted the Blight) and he pushed the covers off of him, using the surprisingly sturdy mushroom-walls as a support as he brought himself to his feet.

"Careful now," scolded the apothecary. "I've heard of complete recovery from the Blight. It is rare, but it has happened before. But even with potions, it ought to take a long time for all of the symptoms to disappear..."

"I feel fine," Nils assured him. Truly, he did. He felt a bit tired maybe, and his shoulder was still sore, but he felt altogether rather healthy, all things considered.

"Very well. I was about to suggest you not leave your bed for a week while you took daily doses of the antidote, but foolishness is not an ailment I am able to cure. Nature already appears to perform that task quite nicely."

The apothecary gathered the rest of the vials and placed them in a cloth bag for Nils. He didn't have enough money on his person to pay him for his assistance, but when he unwrapped the ghoul heart in front of the apothecary, the sour Dunmer let out a gasp of astonishment and snatched it away as a "suitable" alternative. It must have been a valuable reagent or something, for the apothecary immediately tucked it away in a drawer. Nils was about to ask how much the ghoul heart was really worth, as he was beginning to suspect it was quite a bit more than the services performed, but he didn't care anymore. The apothecary had just saved his life, and Nils valued that more than some shriveled grey heart that smelled of ash.


	14. On Moon Sugar and Nord Mages

**Tel Aruhn Docks, On Board the Nereid's Wrath.**

With Alma in tow Nils made his way back to the Nereid's Wrath. As he strode across the gangplank he already could overhear some rather upbeat chatter. Even Keevan sounded amused by the situation, and he was asking questions.

"Tell me again why your Wizard-Lord would be interested in purchasing two entire crates of moon sugar. Just so I know I'm not wasting a trip."

"It's difficult to phrase it using terms simple enough for the layman to understand, but it is incredibly useful, I assure you! Here, allow me to 'lay it out' as you might say. Moon sugar is one of the few ingredients one can use to make a potion that can dispel all magical effects on the imbiber. This greatly expedites the experimental process when one is testing the isolated reactions of multiple different substances on the subject, by ensuring that starting conditions for each trial are identical."

Nils walked into the conversation, though no one seemed to pay him any mind. J'zhirr bumped his arm jovially and Walde gave him a short nod, acknowledging his presence with as much enthusiasm as the Nord could muster.

"She's not wrong," Walde mentioned to Keevan in a low voice. "Unless you want to go diving for pearls, combining moon sugar and bungler's bane is the only easy way to make a potion of dispel."

"Fortunately the Empire never bothered to enforce its ban in Skyrim for the sake of your alchemical studies," Keevan said.

"If Khajiit were allowed to live in their cities, they may have more of a problem," added J'zhirr tartly. Everyone snickered at that except for Zaryth, who blinked as if she were trying to understand the joke. For all of her knowledge, it appeared she was largely uninformed about most politics that occurred outside of Morrowind. Perhaps it was for the better; otherwise it would have given her yet another thing to be self-righteous about.

"What's going on?" Nils asked, realizing he wasn't sure what everyone was talking about other than the fact that the illustrious Divayth Fyr that Zaryth always spoke so fondly of would be interested in buying a large amount of moon sugar. For... research.

"Ah! Nils, was it? Or do you still prefer Hlervu? No matter, let us forgive and forget. I didn't expect you to recover so quickly. Ha! I was about to return to make sure that pompous mer that calls himself an alchemist had actually taken my advice. Anyhow, I suppose I'll be joining your merry band of degenerates for the time being. It works out in your favor too, see? While you were out I took it upon myself to attempt to translate the text of the book we found, but my efforts have been in vain. It is written almost entirely in colloquialisms and metaphor, what we may consider 'vulgar' language, but it is significant because it is almost unheard-of to find such a complete example of this in the Dwemer language. The dwarves weren't exactly renowned for their... prose. If this can even be called that. I'm not certain what this can be called, really."

Zaryth didn't even give Nils an opening in her rather one-sided conversation to allow him to thank her for the potion and all. She just started going on about the book before he could say anything. Right. The book. The one with the symbol on the cover. The symbol that matched the one with the coin that Azura said would bring him closer to the truth. Or something to that respect. Nils had nearly forgotten about it until Zaryth brought it up. If only he weren't so busy remembering his past in his dream, he could have asked Azura about it...

"In the end, I've decided that we must take it to Tel Fyr. Surely Master Fyr would be able to provide some insight, or if Yagrum-"

"Who _is_ this Master Fyr, by the way?"

Nils had stopped her mid-sentence, knowing that if he let her continue she would allow herself to go on until he had forgotten what he wanted to say in the first place.

Zaryth's mouth dropped open in shock. She actually paused to take a breath before she continued.

"Well. That is not something one hears every day. I suppose I can't expect an ignorant backwater outlander such as yourself to know about Divayth Fyr, easily the most venerated and respected Telvanni, nay, the most renowned mage in Morrowind. He is the four thousand year old wizard-lord who resides over Tel Fyr and the Corprusarium, where he is currently using his brilliance to bring about a better understanding of Corprus disease. Not only has he taught me nearly everything _I_ know, he has made advances in literally every school of magic. Look in any tome of any discipline of magic and there must be some kind of annotation that references him."

With a curious smile on her face, Alma handed Zaryth her book on restoration magic. The mage had to roll up her long sleeves to leaf through the book to the appendix in the back. Apparently she was not satisfied with the results and slammed the book shut rather quickly, handing it back to its owner.

"Well, secondary materials often neglect to properly give credit where it is deserved," she rationalized. "In any case, you would _have_ to be an outlander not to have heard of him."

"J'zhirr has lived in Vvardenfell his entire life. This one has not heard of Master... _Fur_? Is he a Khajiit? It would explain why he is trying to satisfy his sugar tooth."

Zaryth's body made a noticeable shudder. She actually looked a little ill at the fact that no one knew who Divayth Fyr was. Fortunately Walde decided to speak up again.

"I know of Divayth Fyr," she said.

Zaryth lit up. Nils realized it was a good thing that at least there was another magic-user on board who could understand what Zaryth was talking about.

"See? Even the Nord knows more about magic than all of you. Bow your heads in shame."

Walde ignored Zaryth's egregiously racist comment and continued.

"Maybe you could ask him about the time he visited the College of Winterhold. The Arch-Mage told us it had something to do with a particular school of magic that was legal in Skyrim, but illegal in Morrowind. Skyrim's cold climate made it all the better for its practice. If you know what I'm getting at."

"What you're 'getting at' is despicable slander," accused Zaryth.

"It's what the Arch-Mage said, not me. It happened before I studied there, but apparently it all started from a feud about whether or not Mysticism should be taught as a valid and separate school of magic. Fyr outlined its many uses and urged Arch-Mage Gylfi to add it to the curriculum. Arch-Mage Gylfi thought it was a waste of time when other schools of magic such as Alteration could be used to perform many of the same functions as Mysticism. He believed that it was only for old witches and self-described shamans, and an intellectual would have no use for communing with spirits."

This conversation was beginning to go entirely over Nils' head but he followed it as best as he could.

"What was his Nordic name? Gylfi Empty-Head?" Zaryth quipped.

"You're very funny. No, perhaps Arch-Mage Gylfi should not have so easily dismissed Fyr's proposal, but Fyr was the one who declared war the day Gylfi's beloved wolf companion perished during a hunt, running ahead of the team to attack a mammoth on its own."

"Your Arch-Mage had a _hunting wolf_? What kind of barbaric mage college was this?" Zaryth asked incredulously.

"A Nord college, actually," said Walde matter-of-factly, which even incited a bit of a chuckle in Zaryth. Nils was surprised at how easily Walde was deflecting Zaryth's attempts at insults. She always seemed so standoffish and short of words, but Nils understood it was because she only spoke when she felt it was necessary, and her reticence was not out of any unfriendliness. The burn scars on her face certainly didn't make her seem any friendlier, and while Nils found it unfortunate he knew that perhaps its intimidating effect was useful to the Nord.

"Back to Arch-Mage Gylfi, well, I've only heard this part from Brynhilde Bone-Splitter so I don't know if it is true, but as she tells it he was preparing a burial for his wolf in the garden behind the school. Gylfi knelt down and had begun to say a few words about 'Wulfgar's' glorious deeds, but suddenly the wolf was surrounded by a milky white aura. To the horror of everyone that had gathered, Wulfgar floated to its feet and started walking around the garden as if raised from the dead. But he wasn't, see? Gylfi turned around to see a smirk on the Dunmer's face, and he viciously accused him of necromancy. Fyr remarked that telekinesis was not necromancy, but simply another clever use of Mysticism, one Gylfi himself might have been able to use to prevent his wolf's untimely end. From that day, Divayth Fyr was permanently banned from college grounds and Gylfi personally made certain that none of us mentioned Mysticism unless it was to point out its uselessness. It took a student-wide effort to prevent him from burning all the books that even mentioned Divayth Fyr or Mysticism."

"Yes, well, Divayth Fyr was known to have a... mischievous streak in his younger years."

"This was a little more than twenty years ago."

"Oh."

A hush fell. Alma and J'zhirr had left to the lower deck and Keevan was studying the sea chart, undoubtedly attempting to locate the island of Tel Fyr.

"Your Arch-Mage must have been stupendously ignorant." Zaryth finally said, standing next to the Captain and pointing to a location on the map. Keevan nodded and made a mark with a pencil.

"I didn't like Arch-Mage Gylfi, either. We all thought of him as a joke. But enough about that fool. What I'd like to know is why a four thousand year old wizard found you interesting enough to take you on as an apprentice," Walde said, putting it all bluntly.

"Well..." Zaryth started hesitantly, shoving her hands into the deep pockets of her blue robes. There had been a noticeable shift in her demeanor. "It wasn't about me, truthfully. It was about who he thought I was."

She paused, but everyone was silent, listening. Her voice revealed reluctance as she continued.

"Eight, no- nine years ago, I fell ill with symptoms superficially similar to the initial stages of Corprus. I was brought to the Corprusarium on Tel Fyr. Before any of you clueless outlanders ask, the Corprusarium serves as both a safe haven and quarantine for those suffering from the disease, where Master Fyr devotes his valuable to finding a cure. Because there is no cure. Everyone dies from Corprus, but not before turning into a disfigured, shambling mess. When my symptoms improved within a few days under the watch of an attendant, Master Fyr was summoned and he briefly thought I could be the Nerevarine. He believes in those foolish Ashlander superstitions, though he'll vehemently deny it any time it's brought up by an acquaintance. Rather insubstantial, those prophecies, at least I think so. But enough of that."

There was that word again. "Nerevarine." Nils was about to ask her to elaborate, but Walde beat him to the interruption, her good eye wide in disbelief.

"By Ysmir... you were cured of Corprus?"

"Sheogorath's beard, of course not. Don't be so daft. If I truly had corprus, I'd be a brainless, flesh-eating shambler rather than the lucid and competent mage you see before you. It only took him a few minutes to figure it out after he examined me. Turned out I never had Corprus in the first place. Isn't that funny? He took me on as an apprentice because I impressed him one day by assembling a pile of spare parts into a working animunculus. Or was it just because I asked? I don't remember. It was so long ago."

Her voice had grown a bit thin as she waved off the most important part of the story. Surely she ought to have been boasting about the impressive feat she had accomplished to catch the eye of the venerated Divayth Fyr. Some part of this story seemed to be dredging up something unpleasant for Zaryth. Nils wasn't surprised. He didn't know much about Corprus, other than the fact that it was incurable, and it turned ordinary people into bloated monsters. To be taken to a place like the Corprusarium swarming with Corprus beasts must have been horrifying in itself, though that didn't seem to be the part of the story that made her uncomfortable.

"But why would he think you were the Nerevarine? There's a connection between that and Corprus? Can you tell us more about this?"

Zaryth shifted her weight between her feet, looking down.

"Look... I really don't want to talk about this anymore."

As it was the first time they had broached a topic even Zaryth did not feel like talking about, Nils did not push it any longer, for her reaction was indeed peculiar.

This Divayth Fyr sounded like someone who would be able to guide him in the right direction, perhaps even make sense of some of these visions he had been having. Zaryth had mentioned something about the Nerevarine earlier, and Nils knew it had to be something important.

And it so happened that his island was only a few miles off course. Lark certainly didn't mind an opportunity to unload his surplus product.

Nerevarine... it was silly, Nils didn't even know what a Nerevarine was. But he was looking forward to meeting the esteemed Divayth Fyr.


	15. The Most Erudite Divayth Fyr

**Tel Fyr**

When the organically twisting spires of Divayth Fyr's mushroom tower became visible through the misty morning air, Nils realized this was very different from the limited number of Telvanni towers he had already seen.

Certainly it had nothing to do with the height. It wasn't like it was any taller than Tel Aruhn or Tel Naga. In fact, it appeared to be slightly less grand in comparison. It was made of the same speckled variety of mushroom so common in these parts that the Telvanni wizards cultivated so well.

What was it that made Tel Fyr so different? Nils scratched his chin.

The island had many natural rock formations, a collection of large sleek boulders and rows of pointy needles; all remnants from Red Mountain's eruption that created Zafirbel Bay during the first era, about three thousand years ago. A cavern had been formed as a result, meeting the bulbous mushroom entrance of the tower's lower level to envelop it on all sides.

At first glance, it looked like the main entrance of Tel Fyr had been built into the face of the rock. Yet there was no evidence indicating that any holes had been carved out in the stone. It all fit so naturally... even with the curling tendrils and round bolete-shaped rooms peeking through the solid rock on the upper levels.

Back in Cyrodiil, whenever Nils came across an abandoned lookout tower or gutted house, he often saw how quickly nature reclaimed it, covering it with a blanket of thick green moss and creeping ivy. This was different. This was the opposite of that.

As soon as the realization dawned on Nils, he was struck numb, feeling a chill along his spine.

The cavern had formed _around_ Tel Fyr.

All that was visible was the front end protruding out, the only decorative elements being the spiral-patterned oval door and glass lantern hanging from a hook, emanating a pale blue magical light. It looked much like the facade to any other Telvanni wizard-lord's abode other than being enclosed within a gods-forsaken rock formation.

 _That_ rock formation had been formed over three thousand years ago, with the Sun's Death eruption of 1E 668.

Tel Fyr had been around before the Disappearance of the Dwarves.

They were pulling up to the docks now. No meddling cephalopod-helmed Telvanni guard just waiting to make a snide remark as soon as they disembarked. In fact, Nils didn't see any guards at all, or any people. He did hear the continuous buzz of insects, and saw a dreugh chasing a slaughterfish in the shallows. But the island was completely isolated.

Nils was silent as he helped Keevan haul the anchor over the ship. A light green archway stood where the dock met the island, and a string of paper lamps hung across, attracting moths and other small insects.

The tower was on the largest of a series of islets. They crossed two organic bridges that had a sharp curve on each side, looking much like the cross-section of some tubular appendage of the mushroom.

Zaryth was already happily explaining this phenomenon to Walde.

"No, mushrooms don't have roots, the tendrils are called hyphae, which branch out of the mycelium it formed from. You ought to know rudimentary fungal morphology by now; did they not teach you alchemy in that... _institution_?" she asked, having had trouble referring to the College of Winterhold as a school for the entire journey. Walde scoffed, yet allowed Zaryth to continue. "But yes, the bridges are carved out of that. Now, if you want to hear something _really_ impressive, you ought to be asking about how Master Fyr altered the organic composition of the mushroom's outer layer in order for a living organism to survive, well, the formation of igneous rock around it. Well, it wasn't easy, let me tell you..."

Nils tuned out of the conversation yet again, his focus being caught by a Dunmer woman with shoulder-length dark red hair heading in their direction.

She was tall and slender, wearing a stiff expression on her face. She looked young enough, perhaps Zaryth's elder by about a decade, but of course it was possible she was centuries older than that. After spending this much time among the Telvanni, Nils didn't know anymore.

"Fine morning, isn't it?" greeted Keevan amiably, waving at the robed woman.

She first nodded in acknowledgment to Zaryth before addressing the captain.

"Yes, the weather is rather agreeable, isn't it?" she replied in a vague, disinterested tone, clearly not one for small talk. Unlike those with Imperial leanings, the Dunmer rather seemed to be put off by the idea of exchanging pleasantries before doing business. And this woman was certainly all business. She squinted at the group. "What reason have you brought these visitors to Tel Fyr?" she asked, now obviously addressing Zaryth while not tearing her scrutinizing gaze from Keevan and Nils. Walde looked at Zaryth, as if wordlessly asking if they could trust her. Zaryth nodded.

"We have the goods," said Walde tactlessly.

The Dunmer woman tilted her head quizzically at the Nord.

"Goods?"

Keevan stepped in front of his first mate, taking over the conversation.

"We heard that the esteemed Divayth Fyr was in the market for certain... substances that the Empire aims to control."

The woman let out a short, thin laugh.

"Spare me the subtlety. Divayth Fyr is in the market for most items that the Empire has prohibited free trade of."

Keevan grinned, his posture relaxing knowing he did not have to hide behind shrouded conversation and euphemisms as deals of this nature unfortunately often were. "Moon sugar. Raw, unrefined sugar. Two crates full that I can offer. We were told-"

"You were told correctly. Let us commence business. You can show me your product, and I can name you his price. To whom am I speaking with?"

"Lark. And you?"

Keevan held his hand out to shake. The Dunmer stared at it, blinking twice before understanding the gesture. With a curious flicker of a smile she reached out cautiously to shake the Redguard's hand. At least her tone had changed to something slightly less condescending, though her demeanor was still rather cool.

"Delte Fyr."

"Ah, you're his wife, then?"

Delte coughed. She cast a sideways glance to Zaryth.

"Something like that," she replied curtly, dismissing him with a wave of her hand, her free hand. Her right hand was still locked in a shake with Keevan's, and she realized only now that she ought to pull away.

"Now, why don't you escort me to your ship? I'd very much like to inspect your product."

Keevan nodded, still smiling. He made a backwards gesture with his thumb towards his ship, turned about-face and lead the way.

As the others left, Nils found himself alone with Zaryth. He let out a deep breath, relieved that the "business" portion seemed to be going off without a hitch.

"So..." he started, unsure if they should begin heading inside. He was honestly curious to see what it looked like from the inside. In the end he was still thinking about that woman's peculiar behavior. "Who was she, if not his wife? His sister? His daughter?"

Zaryth was too busy rummaging through her pack to attend to his questions. Nils shifted his weight, staring at a ragged House Telvanni banner fluttering in the breeze. It looked like it had been weathered by the wind and rain for centuries, with no one bothering to replace it.

"Ah! Here it is! I knew I had an extra. You'll need this if you wish to have an audience with Master Fyr." she said, handing him a glass vial with a swirling purple liquid. He turned it over in his hands. The handwritten label read " _Levitate_." In response to this word, Nils' stomach lurched involuntarily. Thankfully, he had not eaten anything since the night before.

"You'll see what I mean," Zaryth said, leading him across the hypha-bridge until they reached the burgundy door.

* * *

 **Tel Fyr, Onyx Hall**

When they entered, the inside of the room was just like any other mushroom structure. His feet made slight imprints in the spongy floor, only to bounce back into its original space as soon as he began to walk. It was odd, knowing how Fyr apparently transmuted the outer shell into something harder than stone, when the inside was still so soft and natural. He scratched his nose surreptitiously. He had been hoping Tel Fyr would be a bit less thriving than the other towers, but it was just as alive as any other mushroom in the wild. The main entrance split off in three directions. Through a circular entryway, Nils saw another Dunmer woman writing at a desk. From behind she had the same reddish hair as Delte, but it wasn't until she turned around to blink at Nils that he realized she had the same face, too. This was just bizarre. But perhaps she had teleported. Mages were able to do that, weren't they?

"Uh... Delte? Did you... forget something?" he asked hesitantly.

The woman made an audible scoff, tossing her pen in the inkwell.

"Really, Zaryth, did you have to bring a mundane to Tel Fyr _now_? I'm trying to handle a crisis over here."

"Did you lose control of the summon again?"

"Oh, I _wish_ that were the problem," she sighed.

Nils saw Zaryth peering at letter. The woman did not protest; she even shifted her chair to allow a better view. His eyes looked over the paper as well, curiosity getting the better of him.

 _Divayth,_

 _I have been working diligently on your assignment, but I simply cannot tolerate these conditions any longer. This is the second time today that Ogrim-brained Temple priestess attempted to 'cleanse' my laboratory by banishing the Dremora I'd been working with. Azzidan is a proud Kynval and if he is continuously subjected to this manner of humiliation I will never extract any information. I know that you were pleased to find a carrier displaying no obvious symptoms, and that granting her a bed in the Onyx Hall was more than just an act of charity, but Tanusea Veloth belongs in the Corprusarium, with the rest of the diseased. If left to her own devices she will continue to sabotage my research and perhaps we will never be able to understand (and more importantly, prevent) what Mehrunes Dagon's followers are scheming._

 _All my love,_

 _Alfe Fyr._

Alfe Fyr was the name signed at the bottom. That made sense, he supposed. She and Delte had to be twin sisters. There was nothing bizarre about this entire situation. Nothing at all.

She stared disdainfully in Nils' general direction, though was too disengaged to even look him in the eye. "Also, my name isn't Delte. I have little patience for upstarts like you, let alone upstarts who think themselves too important to learn my proper name."

She was unusually touchy on this subject. Maybe it came with being a twin, and always being mistaken for the other. Maybe.

"My apologies, Alfe. I'm Nils. Uh... the pleasure is all mine," he said, turning to Zaryth as if looking for help choosing the right words to say to a mage even haughtier than herself. Zaryth just shrugged.

"Indeed. It is all yours," Alfe answered dryly, folding her letter and creasing it sharply. "Carry on, mundane."

Mundane. He liked it better when people called him 'outlander.'

Zaryth ushered him out of that room and up a spiral ramp. The air felt thick and full of spores. Nils tried not to sneeze.

"You think she talks like that to the Dremora?" Zaryth asked, once they were well out of earshot of Alfe Fyr.

"Huh?"

" _'_ You know." Zaryth ran a hand through her short hair in a melodramatic exaggeration of Alfe's behavior. "'Hmph. Daedra or no, I have little patience for fools who do not bother to learn my proper name.'"

Nils snickered, now raising his voice to mimic the overzealous shouting of a Dremora.

"What are you saying, mortal? I was told 'PATHETIC WORM' was your proper name!"

"I admit, it's an improvement from expressing your desire to feast on my entrails, but who told you to call me that?"

"It is what Muhroonez Dagoth said!"

"Oh, no! Is that Mehrunes Dagon's protonymic?! I absolutely _must_ tell Master Fyr that I found it first, to remind him of how much better I am than everyone else!"

The two of them burst into raucous laughter, which continued all the way up to the next level.

"Oh! Here it is!" Zaryth exclaimed, pointing one finger upwards.

Nils tilted his head backwards.

They were in the main, hollowed-out "stem" of the mushroom tower. Illuminated by the same pale magical blue lamps, there were holes on all levels, leading through twisting stalk-tunnels and egg-shaped rooms.

Along the spongy stem-wall, Nils noticed a cropping of bungler's bane; a shelf fungus that normally thrived on rotted wood. Apparently it could also grow on mushroom towers. He thought about that for a moment. There were mushrooms growing inside of the mushroom. He covered his mouth as he finally sneezed.

Zaryth cast a spell on herself, her body surrounded by a purplish light before she slowly began to levitate upwards. She was blissfully unaware of his adverse reaction to the spores in the air, calling down for him to drink his levitation potion, "but only half!"

Nils did as she said. The potion had a slippery, soapy texture as it slid down his throat.

"Which room are we aiming for?" he asked, feeling that odd sensation again, like someone was gently lifting him upwards by the shoulders. Zaryth took his arm, guiding him in the right direction as they slowly drifted up. It was like swimming, except mid-air, with nothing keeping him aloft save for a bit of temporary alteration magic interfering with the gravity around him.

* * *

 **Tel Fyr, Hall of Fyr**

Though he didn't feel nearly as sick as he had the first time he experienced levitation, it wasn't an entirely pleasant experience and he was glad when Zaryth finally pulled him into an enormous chamber at the very top. While Zaryth was simply able to stop casting her spell and float gracefully to the ground, Nils had to wait for the potion to wear off and found himself having to continuously use his hands to push himself back downwards each time his head touched the 'ceiling' (or was it the cap?) of the room.

The room was dimly lit. A formation of enormous crystals emitted a pale violet light. They appeared to have formed naturally. Inside of the mushroom.

Tall, overflowing bookshelves wrapped all along the natural curvature of the wall. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of books in this one room.

A Dunmer in the center of the room was standing, not sitting, at his desk, leafing through a book with an indifferent expression on his face. When they first arrived his sharp red eyes flitted up briefly, but went back down to his book without acknowledging their presence. Zaryth said nothing, and Nils decided to do the same. The violet crystals made a continuous shimmering sound, which was pleasant to the ears at first, but after a few minutes it already started to become grating.

If this was the illustrious Divayth Fyr, he did not look particularly remarkable, for all the great words that Zaryth had for him. He was no shorter or taller than the average Mer, and his white hair was gathered in a ponytail at the back. He had the start of a short, scruffy white beard on his chin that Nils suspected was less of a stylistic preference and more of a tendency to forget to shave. The only extraordinary thing about his appearance was the armor he was wearing. It was shiny black with red designs inlaid, spiral patterns and Daedric characters. The entire set was characterized by hazardous spikes and sharp ridges. Nils would recognize that armor anywhere. While visiting the Mages Guild one afternoon, he witnessed a conjurer summoning a Dremora for his students to examine. This armor looked exactly like what that Dremora wore. Seemed that particular Daedra was currently a running theme at Tel Fyr. It... didn't seem the most practical for a person to wear, and all of the spikes looked more hazardous and painful for the wearer than for any opponent. The man didn't even look like he was about to head into any battle. He just stood there, in this ridiculous getup, one gauntlet removed so that he could leaf through the pages of his book.

Finally, Divayth Fyr closed the book on his table and straightened his stance. He took his time before he spoke, looking between Nils and Zaryth.

"Well," he finally said, raising a well-defined eyebrow. His voice was low and husky, and though he did not speak very loudly, his words still echoed across the chamber. "I _did_ ask for an Orsimer, Zaryth, but he's arrived timely enough, I suppose he will do."

Zaryth waved her hands frantically.

"N-no! He's not here for the Malacath ritual!" she exclaimed.

Divayth Fyr put a finger on his chin, looking mildly disappointed. "Oh." He crossed his arms and shifted his gaze towards a long table, which held a massive ebony warhammer. "I fail to understand why we don't have hordes of them at my door by now for Volendrung. Well, it's here, if any of them are interested in that ancient Dwemer artifact that their Malacath had long appropriated. All I require is one small favor."  
Divayth sighed. He walked over to his desk again and poured himself a drink from the pitcher. He took to staring at his book yet again, furrowing his brow.

Nils didn't want to have to wait for him to remember that he was in his study again, like Zaryth seemed to be in the habit of doing. He wished that she would introduce them, or do _something_ to make this less awkward.

"Lord Fyr, I'm sorry to bother you..."

Two red eyes shot upwards at him.

His stare was so penetrating that Nils felt like shrinking away. He had the absolute attention of a four thousand year old wizard and somehow this was a terrifying thought. But his posture did not falter.

"We – that is, Zaryth and I... we found a book in the ruins of Rthalzeft-"

"Aha! I take it you are another scholar of the Dwemer?"

"Well, no. Not at all, actually. I just wanted to know what was in this book."

He pulled it out of his bag and extended it towards the aged Telvanni wizard.

Divayth Fyr ran a hand over the delicate cover.

"Fascinating..." he murmured. "Before the forming of the First Council allowed the influence of other elven cultures to permeate their cities, the Dwemer had very different names for each of their constellations. They had no need to arbitrarily typify clusters of stars into illustrations for children and the ignorant to remember, nor did they have any need to personify them. The stars were another thing to study, and their names for the constellations translated into lovely compounds describing their magnitude and sky-coordinates. The only exception was – well, it's not exactly a constellation but I will refer to it as such for the simplicity of conversation – the Serpent. In every single culture known on Mundus that have any written records on astronomy, the celestial phenomenon known as the Serpent is always compared to some slithering, serpentine reptile. That cluster of un-stars has always been one of those Aetherial enigmas that even the Dwemer could not pin down with scientific language. And I am always interested in anything the Dwemer couldn't understand."

Nils watched Divayth Fyr leaf through the thin pages of the book, a crease forming on his brow as his teeth clenched.

"You couldn't make any sense of it, either?" he eventually asked, obviously addressing Zaryth now.

"No. I thought you'd find it interesting. It's... written entirely in that odd vernacular. I've _never_ seen any Dwemer prose in my life, but this..."

"This is likely the closest thing there is to it. Curious..."

"So. What is the significance of this book to you? What is your incentive? Your angle? Your motivation?"

He was addressing him directly again. Nils hoped that the book would be fascinating enough to make him forget that a "mundane" such as himself would be interested in such a book. He couldn't very well lie to Divayth Fyr; his discerning red eyes looked like they could see straight through to his soul.

"It was Azura. She... I saw her. In a vision. I went to her realm..."

Divayth Fyr closed the book and set it aside.

"She took _you_ to Moonshadow? Forgive me if I find this difficult to believe."

"It sounds very strange, I know it does. I'm certain it wasn't a dream. Or a delusion. She showed me a cryptic vision, and then told me that the symbol – the one on the cover of the book – she told me that it would bring me closer to the truth. Later, I found out that it corresponds to the constellation of the Serpent. I was born under the sign of the Serpent. Maybe it's nothing. But I did converse with Azura. She said I was star-blessed. I don't know what that means-"

"Hmm. Yes. And now you believe you are the Nerevarine. Of course you do. Zaryth, is this some kind of joke? I already apologized five times with regards to using your vampire salts, I fail to understand–"

Before Nils could interject that he made no such claims about the Nerevarine, let alone his potential status as such a legendary figure, a comely Dunmer woman floated into the room. Her face looked exactly the same as Alfe and Delte Fyr's, but her hair was black and parted in the center, with both sides hanging over her shoulders in braids. She had managed to levitate to Divayth's chamber while carrying a limeware platter overflowing with pastries of assorted pastel colors, arranged perfectly in a pyramid display. That was rather impressive.

"E-excuse me, sera," she said, bowing her head slightly to Nils. She spoke timidly, yet with a demure politeness. "I know I must be interrupting a very important meeting."

"Nonsense, Beyte. Your cooking is a welcome interruption," answered Fyr, eyeing the platter with a hawklike stare.

 _Triplets?_

Divayth helped himself to a powdery pink pastry. Zaryth took one that was off-white. When Beyte turned to Nils with that expectant smile on her face, he had no choice but to accept. The pastry was actually made of two small cookies sandwiched together with some kind of cream. They looked far too soft and elegant to have been a native Morrowind treat. The one that Nils had lifted happened to be a light bluish-purple. Upon eating the sugary confectionery, he was immediately greeted by an all-too-familiar blueberry taste within the soft, floury pastry. He hadn't tasted blueberries for a long time, and this was a welcome flavor. It reminded him of Cyrodiil. In fact, eating _any_ sort of dessert reminded him of Cyrodiil.

"This is delicious," Nils said softly, smiling at Beyte. "Where did you learn to make these?"

The Dunmer woman looked down, shyly. Her face darkened slightly as if she were blushing.

"Oh... your words are very kind, sera. I met a world-famous chef when I was in High Rock."

"That Breton?" asked Divayth Fyr, a hint of what could have been either jealousy or protectiveness in his voice.

"He was very kind to me after I protected his caravan from giant bats. And... giant boars, and giant crocodiles, and giant harpies. Daggerfall is a dangerous place."

While the lady's meek demeanor did not entirely give the impression that she was someone capable of slaying any giant monsters, Nils supposed appearances were quite deceiving. Perhaps the shy, fragile image she presented was all an act. He could not tell.

Beyte left the tray on Divayth Fyr's desk and bowed, sneaking an impish grin to Nils before floating slowly back down.

That was unexpected.

The aged Telvanni ate his pastry slowly and deliberately with his one unarmored hand. Nils could hear the sound of his armor creaking together with his slight movements. He was still wearing that Daedric armor. Why was he wearing that armor? Despite the careful way he was eating, Divayth managed to spill a few pastel pink crumbs on the fierce black and red cuirass. Should he tell him, or...?

"Well, then." Divayth Fyr said, staring at Nils with narrowed eyes. "Your mother was a Dunmer, yes? Your father, possibly one of those Nedic offshoots... Cyrodiilic, or, no... 'Imperial' is what they are calling themselves now, aren't they? Oh, but that's elementary racial phylogeny, don't look so shocked. The offspring ordinarily resembles the mother's race with only traces remaining of the father's. I have a large tome on the subject if you wish to borrow it. Or keep it, really. Educate yourself. I am expecting to receive a valuable collection from Shad Astula and I will need more space in my library, anyhow. What was your name again?"

"Nilseth Valericus, but-"

"You hardly see how any of this is relevant? Ai. It would seem most inconsequential, to the layman's eye, and you are absolutely correct. But if an old wizard is no longer allowed his meddling curiosity, how could he claim to know everything?"

"I cannot argue with that logic, sera," said Nils, unsure how else he should respond. "What about the Dwemer book?"

"Ai. It is almost nonsensical to me. I can read the words, and provide a literal translation, as I'm certain my dear apprentice here could do for you just as well, but it would not make any sense. Let's see..." he lifted the book up again, translating directly as he read. "' _Semi-pure diverted corrosion harmonic wave, respirating chal'_ – that was a popular drink during the late Merethic era – _'oxidation of phospholipids cultivated by non-linear infinitesimal chattel_ ' see what I mean? Nonsense, and not even Sheogorath's half-comprehensible variety."

"How is Yagrum Bagarn faring these days?" Zaryth suddenly piped up, after being oddly quiet throughout the entire interaction.

"Our Dwemer patient is still struggling to keep his wits about him. I haven't the heart to bother him with something of this nature, but-"

"But perhaps it will be a welcome mental exercise for him!"

"Quite, Zaryth. Hm. I will pass it along to him, but I cannot guarantee fast nor accurate results, mind. He suffers daily, loses himself occasionally, sometimes for months at a time. Such is the degenerative nature of his disease."

Nils took a sharp inhale. This seemed unreal. He knew that Zaryth mentioned something about the 'last living Dwemer' but it never entirely processed in his mind as truth, as it was so outlandish. But... it really was true. They were casually talking about a living Dwemer being right here, deep in the bowels of Tel Fyr's corprusarium. And the little book he had found in the ruins of Rthalzeft was going to be personally translated, by him. By the last known living Dwemer.

"Now, I suppose I ought to request you perform a task for me in return. Nothing too imposing. Do you have any experience crushing diamonds?"

Before Nils could answer to the negative, Zaryth interrupted for him.

"You mean you haven't gotten someone to do that for you by now? I'm tired of hearing you ask every other visitor to be your personal diamond-crusher. Just... make another daughter to do that for you, or something."

"And subject someone with my superior genetics to that kind of menial labor? Why, the thought is nearly offensive, but I may forgive you your young age, Zaryth. Hm. I do know of another task. I ought to have asked this first, as it is of the utmost urgency."

Before Nils knew it, Divayth Fyr was handing him a black cylindrical object, about the same length as a finger, but just a bit wider. The tube was etched with ancient runes that Nils could not read or even recognize.

"Rotheran? You're not asking him to retrieve the propylon index from the necromancers, are you?" asked Zaryth hesitantly.

Divayth Fyr nodded solemnly.

Zaryth looked a bit nervous. Nils didn't know what Rotheran or a propylon index was, but he knew what necromancers were, and this sounded dangerous.

"On second thought... could I just stay and crush diamonds instead?"

Neither answered his question.


	16. The Faces of the Temple

**Grazelands**

Though the crew of the Nereid's Wrath bid them farewell at the docks of Tel Fyr, Nils and Zaryth continued the journey together.

The Grazelands was a particularly curious region of Vvardenfell, Nils realized. This long, fertile stretch of land was marked by grassy meadows and indigo fields of stoneflowers. There were so many green, living things here. It was no surprise, as the mountain range to the west was tall enough to shield the Grazelands from Red Mountain's ash storms, and marked the official border to separate it from the wastes of the Ashlands.

"It's so calm here," Nils remarked as they walked past a field of wildly growing wickwheat, listening to the gentle rustle in the balmy wind.

Zaryth snorted, raising her hands behind her head. She had changed her clothing before they left, and was now wearing a shorter travel robe, with loose pants tucked into her boots.

"Yes, you say that now. Wait until you see your first Aureal."

"Aureal... you mean-"

"Golden Saint, yes." Zaryth said curtly, rolling her eyes.

"Wait, you mean... _unbound?_ Just... walking around?"

"Yes, they're part of the wildlife, along with the ogrims. Hulking, dim-witted green beasts. They look like Orcs gone wrong. I used to see a lot of Winged Twilights roosting in these parts, fighting the golden saints as they always do, but I don't see them anymore. I suspect the ogrims are responsible. Sheogorath must have buttered up Malacath enough so that he'd order his ogrims to eat all of Azura's harpies out of existence. But... now that I think about it... Malacath was very upset about not being invited to Sheogorath's 4,711th annual Festival of Prestidigitation on the Shivering Isles, so maybe the ogrims just got hungry. Still as many scamps as ever, though... just, ugh, scampering around. Nasty things." Zaryth made a face.

"The ogrims don't eat the scamps, too?" Nils asked, a bit surprised that Zaryth knew so much about the social activity of Daedric princes.

"Is this an actual question? Have you _smelled_ a scamp before? Oh, that's right. I'm talking to the fetcher that's never seen a lesser Daedra in the wild before."

Indeed, he hadn't. And as they continued along the overgrown dirt path, Nils jumped a little upon seeing his first Golden Saint in the distance, glistening in the sunlight in all her splendor. She was a tall, fierce-looking woman with armor the same brilliant gold as her skin. She walked with powerful strides along the coastline, with a certain ferocity and purpose driving her steps. A mudcrab ambled out of the shallows to stand in her way, gurgling and clacking its pincers uselessly. Rather than take the time to walk around the nuisance, the golden lady conjured an ethereal battle-axe and cleaved through the mudcrab with one elegant motion. Her gilded boots cracking the poor dead thing's shell even more as she walked over it, the Golden Saint continued brusquely, without slowing her pace at all. Though they were thankfully not even close to being in her way, Nils and Zaryth edged a few more feet away from the shore as she marched past, just to be safe. That was a frightening woman.

Zaryth, unfazed, fussed with her map and compass a bit more, but soon they were continuing in the right direction again.

Perhaps the one thing that surprised Nils the most about the Grazelands was how sparsely populated the region was. This was prime, fertile land, flat as far as the eye could see. True, there were Daedra running amok, but they would be no match for a couple powerful Telvanni wizards, or even a squadron or two of Imperial legionnaires. Aside from the ashlander camps scattered about, the only settled part of the Grazelands was the city of Vos, which was far, far north from their present location.

Then again, perhaps he was underestimating the Ashlanders. Though they appeared primitive as he walked past their clusters of yurts made of kagouti-hide and insect parts, he knew they were everywhere. Even when they were long past a camp he still heard them rustling unseen among the trees, whistling softly to each other in their secret code, undoubtedly watching the travelers with an intense curiosity. They had a deep understanding of the wilderness that no "civilized" person could deign to match, not without spending years in the wilds hunting and gathering. Perhaps they feared the Ashlanders more than the Daedra, and for good reason. If they wanted him dead, Nils knew he would have a poisoned chitin arrow in his neck by now.

"Tell me again how Divayth Fyr allowed a group of necromancers to raid Tel Fyr."

Zaryth sighed that enormous sigh that indicated she was tired of his absolutely sensible questions.

"He has this hobby, amusement rather, of inviting treasure-hunters to Tel Fyr to give them the opportunity to plunder his dungeon. He's lost a lot of keys around Tel Fyr, but they number up to two thousand. Each key corresponds to a certain chest or door in either the tower itself or the Corprusarium, for the particularly brave. I'm certain you've noticed by now that Master Fyr is a serious enthusiast of collecting... _things._ If you open any drawer you'll find it overflowing with Dwemer pieces, Daedric weapons, soapstone carvings from Elsweyr, even Akaviri cutlery. In fact, he has such a large collection, that it often becomes difficult to find space for all the _new_ artifacts he collects. That's why he came up with the game. I never liked it much myself, having to triple-ward my door to keep some burglar out, but Master Fyr seems to enjoy allowing strangers in to raid his home. Which is why no one paid the necromancers any notice... until they broke one of his ground rules."

"What are the rules?"

"One, don't harm or steal from any of the permanent residents of Tel Fyr. Including but not limited to his brilliant apprentice, his daughters, and any of the patients in the Corprusarium. Even the mindless stalkers that attack everything they see. Rule two..." Zaryth trailed off, placing a finger on her chin. "No, actually, I think that's the only rule. Delte and Alfe tried to come up with a much longer list, but it never really caught on."

"What happened?"

"Well, a group of three rowdy necromancers barged through the door, pushing Delte rudely aside as she recited the rules to them, and proceeded down to the morgue of Master Fyr's corprusarium. They showed no interest in any of the priceless artifacts, they..." Zaryth had to take another breath before she continued, looking a touch ill just at the memory of this event. "They were only interested in the flesh of the recently deceased corprus victims."  
"Were they not afraid of catching the disease?"

"Clearly they had the proper enchantments or spells to protect them from disease, else they would not be touching them with- with their bare hands. C-corprus weepings are in fact a p-potent and useful alchemy reagent, but I don't think they were interested in that..."

Zaryth shuddered, looking decently disturbed, and indeed it was a horrifying thing to wonder what those necromancers wanted with Corprus flesh, but she still hadn't gotten to the part where they took the propylon index.

"And what was the significance of these little indices?"

"Well, remember that giant, abandoned fortress made of stone we walked past about an hour ago? Just as we got out of the Molag Amur region?"

"You marked it as Falensarano on your map," Nils confirmed, eliciting a nod from Zaryth. She seemed relieved at being able to jump quickly into another topic with her usual scholarly zeal.

"Falensarano, Indoranyon, and Rotheran are all ancient Dunmer strongholds, built sometime after the War of the First Council in the First Era. There are ten of them still standing on Vvardenfell – well, actually eleven, if you count House Dagoth's old stronghold, but it's long been taken off the propylon network and is thus irrelevant to all of us now. These strongholds were once fortified cities, complete with underground tunnels and secret passages much like the old Dwemer ruins. Each stronghold has a propylon chamber, which contain waypoints that are linked to two other strongholds. One can only travel to another stronghold with the corresponding index. For example, we are headed to Indoraynon, which contains a link to Rotheran. While holding the Rotheran propylon index, we will be able to teleport there."

Nils thought that he understood by now, but Zaryth just kept going.

"It allowed for fast transportation between the cities and gave the Dunmer a strategic advantage over the second wave of Nord invaders. You'll also notice that each propylon chamber contains violet focusing crystals, a necessity when something as unstable as Mysticism is involved. They're there to negate any potential paroxysms, such as incomplete de-materialization–"

"Are these the same as the crystals in Divayth Fyr's study?" Nils interrupted, remembering the oddly singing violet crystals.

"Yes, exactly those. Now, the propylon chambers are the only functional – oh, _shit._ "

She cut herself off with a profanity Nils had never heard out of her mouth before. He narrowed his eyes at the sight ahead.

Two Dunmer wearing fairly ornate-looking bonemold armor were marching straight towards them, both carrying spiked ebony maces. Identical in appearance, both wore the same mask, a pale gold piece molded in an eerily realistic representation of a grim, masculine face. Nils even saw imprints of scars to add to the realism. Its immaculate level of detail brought Nils back to the time a traveling caravan passed through Cheydinhal, selling plaster castings of what they purported to be Pelagius the Mad's death mask. At around fifty septims a piece, it was a popular if not macabre article worn by children to scare the daylight out of their parents and teachers.

That was the first thing that came to mind when Nils saw the grim, golden-faced guards. A casting of a death mask. An orange-red coif ran along the crown of the helm – it was a full helm, not just a mask. Complete with ear-shaped appendages on both sides molded to fit elven ears.

"What are a couple of Ordinators doing _here?_ " Zaryth whispered, trying to hide her fear behind her usual disdain. It wasn't working. Nils noticed that her hands were trembling as she put away her map.

Ordinators. Nils remembered that word. Caius Cosades had given him a quick briefing on them back in Balmora. Zealous enforcers of Tribunal rule. Don't cross them, don't talk to them, don't even _look_ at them for too long. Never, _ever_ say anything bad about the Tribunal Temple in the presence of _anyone_ who may repeat it to an Ordinator. They believe all outlanders and non-Dunmer to be inferior scum and will eagerly take any excuse to imprison or even kill someone for blasphemy.

Though he couldn't say the same for Zaryth, Nils was inclined to treat this interaction with the utmost delicacy.

"Remain where you are, citizens. We are here on behalf of the Grand Inquisitor Llerethan Indoril himself," one commanded, his raspy voice partially muffled by the mask. It made no difference. They were still intimidating.

Nils put his hands up instinctively. Zaryth, after much reluctance, eventually raised hers as well.

"Something the matter, _seras_?" she asked, her voice having a brittle, forcefully chipper quality.

But the two went straight into questioning.

"Who are you, and why are you traveling through the Grazelands?"

Before Zaryth could say anything, Nils spoke up. He smeared the truth a bit, not wanting them to know where they were headed in case they decided to tail them.

"Just a couple scholars, _sera_. Investigating the ruins. Dwemer ruins. We don't take any artifacts with us, and you can search us for them if you'd like. We have nothing to hide."

The Ordinators stared at them through the narrow eye-slits of the masks. Nils couldn't even see their eyes, let alone their facial expressions. He understood that their disquieting appearance was entirely intentional. This was the face of divine retribution.

"There are no Dwemer ruins in the Grazelands. What are you truly here for?"

"Actually..." Zaryth interjected in a high-pitched voice. "We're currently en route to Vos, after exploring the lost ruins of Rthalzeft. Yes, Rthalzeft is real, and it's on a sunken island just off the coast of Tel Aruhn. I... I hate to give away the location of such a pristine, unplundered city, but I can mark it on your maps if you'd like."

The two Ordinators stared at them again for several seconds. One turned to look at the other, who shook his head.

"No, keep your hands up, citizen. We are not finished with you. We have heard reports that a dangerous fugitive has been spotted in these parts. We demand information on the fraud calling herself Peakstar, a young Ashlander woman who claims to be Nerevarine. Have you anything to report?"

"Dangerous? What are her crimes?" Zaryth asked. Nils detected a bit of defiance in her voice. He wished she would stop. Clearly she had some sort of issue with authority figures. Or maybe just with Ordinators. Whatever it was, she was dancing along a dangerous line.

"Claiming to be Saint Nerevar reborn is blasphemy enough according to the strictures, punishable by death. She has a long list of other transgressions that defy Temple doctrine. By the divine virtue of Almsivi we aim to stop this fugitive and her little insurrection where it starts. We prefer to bring her back to one of our re-education centers, but we are not afraid to become agents of Vivec's retribution for her hideous crimes which already warrant death."

"Ha!" Zaryth's exclamation seemed involuntary. Nils wanted to kick her. But she still continued. "How do you aim to do that? You are standing on Telvanni soil. Might I remind you that House Indoril has no jurisdiction here?"

 _Shut up shut up shut up shut up..._

The two Ordinators turned to look at each other, through their eye-slits. It was impossible to know the expressions on their faces because of the masks. One moved to stand directly in front of her, arms crossed. The other stood behind her.

"Are you of House Telvanni?"

Zaryth straightened up, confidence growing in her voice.

"Of course, and if word gets back to my master that you've been harassing travelers-"

"You're somebody's apprentice?"

"Yes, yes, of course I am, please don't make me repeat myself. I'll also have you know that my master is extremely influential within the upper echelons of Great House Telvanni, and as I said before, you-"

"You're a spellcaster, then."

It was less of a question and more of a statement. They didn't give Zaryth a chance to answer. He kneed her in the stomach, abruptly and without warning. As she recoiled, the man behind her grabbed her arms, twisting them behind her back.

Nils could only watch them working together with this cold efficiency.

The girl squirmed and kicked, but the Ordinator was stronger. He forced one of her hands out in front of her. Nils cringed upon seeing what was happening. Her hands. They were going to do something with her hands. That was why they had asked her those questions about being a spellcaster. Her dark gray fingers were forced apart. The Ordinator started with the smallest finger on her left hand, bending it as far backwards as it would go.

"In case-"

 _Crack._

"You weren't-"

 _Crack._

"Aware..."

 _Crack. Crack. Crack._

All five of the fingers on her left hand were broken. Just like that.

"Almalexia, Sotha Sil, and Vivec have final sovereignty over all of Morrowind. Their will overrides that of any 'Great' House."

Now the accomplice began to fan out her right hand. Nils felt sick. He balled his own hands into fists, trembling with fear and anger. He despised himself for his uselessness, that he could do nothing to prevent this from happening. If he reached for his sword, he'd be dead in an instant. Zaryth had tears running down her cheeks. There was some pained sound coming out of her mouth, but he couldn't distinguish any words. Was she actually trying to speak? All he could hear were unintelligible, sobbed murmurs. They were hurting her so much. It was all horrible.

Oh, gods, there came that sickening snapping sound again.

 _Crack._

"We enact their will."

 _Crack._

"Therefore... our authority is absolute."

 _Crack._

"No petty boundaries set by any House can stand against the will of the gods."

 _Crack. Crack._

That was ten. All of her fingers were broken with the efficient methodology of the holy and pious Temple Ordinators. It was over. Nils took a sharp inhale, but he didn't feel entirely relieved.

"Do you understand? Or must I break it down even further?"

Zaryth tried to speak, but she could only choke on her words.

The Ordinator leaned close to stare at her, so that he golden mask was an inch away from her face.

Finally, he nodded at the one restraining her.

"May Almsivi show mercy to you, _s'wit_ ," he muttered, pushing her roughly into the ground.

Nils immediately rushed to her side. This was bad. She was shivering, crying, but still glaring at the Temple enforcers with volatile fire in her eyes.

One of the Ordinators cleared his throat. Swallowing his anger, Nils stood up and turned to him.

"You never did answer our questions. Have you come across an Ashlander woman with long red hair, about thirty to thirty-five years of age? Name of Peakstar."

That description was so vague it could have been about ten different people he saw while passing through the Grazelands. He wondered why the Ordinators weren't going through the Ashlander camps themselves rather than harassing innocent travelers on the road. Or perhaps they already had.

Nils cleared his throat.

"I've not met any Ashlander women with a peculiar name like that, claiming to be Nerevarine, no. But there are a lot of Ashlanders in the Grazelands, and a lot of Dunmer women in their thirties with red hair. Is there anything else you needed, _sera_?"

His words sounded so foreign to his ears, as if he weren't really speaking, but listening to someone else speak with his voice.

"Certainly you are aware of our divine right of requisition. Search them, brother."

Divine right to requisition. What was that about? They could take their belongings now in the name of the gods? It sounded like the Ordinator had made this rule up on the spot. Was it still because of what Zaryth had said? He wished she had just kept her mouth shut. But it was hard for him to blame her after witnessing that torture.

Their packs were taken from them and overturned on the dirt path.

"The propylon index," sputtered Zaryth in a whisper, watching with sheer terror as she saw the little black tube roll out of Nils' rucksack. How was she even _thinking_ about the propylon index at a time like this? Nils was more concerned about their gold, and their supply of food and potions they had brought with them. Of course, the Ordinators ended up taking these essentials, along with some scrolls that Zaryth brought with her. The few hundred Septims Nils brought with him now belonged to the Temple. Along with just about everything else that was of practical use to them. At least they left Zaryth's stupid propylon index, and their maps and compasses. And their flasks of drinking water. They didn't take Nils' sword either, though they wouldn't need his Imperial steel when they each had those wicked-looking ebony maces.

"Report directly to Temple authority if you come across this woman. May the Three watch over you," one said as they departed. Just like that. Nils watched their backs as they left, and finally turned to Zaryth, who was still groaning in pain.

A thousand thoughts were racing through his head, but he understood that he had to figure out how to heal her first. Yes, he knew a few basic restoration spells, but it had been so long since he had practiced. The Imperial Legion first aid manuals he had used during his time as a guard in Cyrodiil immediately came to mind, but making a splint for every single one of her fingers didn't seem entirely practical, in addition to being time-consuming.

Zaryth was hyperventilating. Her entire body was heaving up and down with each panicked breath. He knew this wasn't going to do. He needed her to stay calm if this was going to work.

"Listen, Zaryth. I'm going to help you. I just-" he swallowed. He was trying to make his voice sound as slow and calm as possible. "I just need you to cooperate with me, and stay alert. Can you concentrate on my voice?" he asked.

Zaryth nodded, but she was still breathing heavily. Nils coaxed one of her disfigured hands into his own, holding it gingerly. Each finger was contorted into an unnatural position, and the joints had begun to swell. Nils cringed. It looked extremely painful. He took a deep breath. His own pulse was quickening. Did he even remember how to do this? Just... stay calm. He thought about what the priestess of Mara had taught him, as she patiently sat with him in the chapel of the Divines. _You must let go of yourself and become a divine instrument of Mara's love. Let go of everything except for Mara's love, and she will guide you._

His hands began to glow a pale blue, but the spell quickly fizzled out. He found it hard to think about Mara's love at a time like this.

Truly, he never could get a handle on his magicka. It was always a slippery, elusive thing, something he could never pin down.

"Focus..." Zaryth's trembling voice came as a surprise to Nils. "You need to focus," she urged him, heavy with pain.

He closed his eyes.

Nils imagined he was back in Cheydinhal's chapel again. It was quiet, so calm. The light was shining through the stained glass windows of Arkay, of Kynareth, of Mara in a colorful cascade in front of him. He thought of the priestess again. Sister Vinicia... she had such a pleasant smile, a fair Imperial maiden with long, slender fingers and sable curls, and she always smelled of lavender- no. He had to remember what she said to him that day.

" _How we channel restoration magic is unique from any other school. Its secrets are drawn from the soul, not from the mind. Unlike most other spells, you need not be thinking about the healing magic. You must feel it within you."_

The healing light returned, brighter than before. As he channeled the white-blue glow through her fingers, he heard them slowly snapping back into place.

"Never knew..." Zaryth started, but never finished her sentence. She was moving the fingers of her right hand freely. That was good. This had worked. Nils took a deep breath, and started on her other hand. This time he was even able to speak as he cast the spell. Perhaps it could distract her from the pain, at least for a little bit.

"Never knew I could cast spells? I can hardly even do this. Only ever got a handle on healing, and just barely. Sister Vinicia told me that restoration magic was more about feeling and less about thinking."

"Sounds like she was politely trying to tell you that you are dumb."

Good. Her capacity for insulting people was returning. Or, perhaps it wasn't entirely a good thing, because that was what had gotten her in this mess to begin with, but Nils was happy that she was returning to her usual vitriolic self. It meant she was feeling better. He only had three more fingers to go.

"Maybe, but she still kissed me in the bell tower."

"I suppose everyone gets desperate at some point."

"Don't you think you ought to lay off on insulting people for a while?"

"Why? It's not my fault that some people are overly sensitive."

It was astounding. She never learned.

"It is definitely your fault. All of this."

Zaryth made a noise that sounded like a growl.

"Look... I'm not going to bow down to a couple of religious nuts trying to antagonize me... they... they even defied your precious Imperial laws! They think they're so scary and intimidating, but I think the masks just make them look like imbeciles. Don't you think?"

"I think they look rather nightmarish, myself."

"That's because you're a spineless Imperial _n'wah_."

"Hey, I'm only half _-_ spineless Imperial _n'wah_. I look more like a Dunmer."

"You look more like a kagouti to – Ow!"

"Sorry." Nils smiled sheepishly. He might have been a bit rough with popping her last finger into place. In any case, it was all done. Zaryth wiggled all ten of her fingers.

"Not bad," she admitted.

He had to agree. It was a clean job he had made of it. Perhaps he was better at restoration magic than he initially thought.

After sorting out their remaining belongings, Zaryth suddenly began continuing on ahead, as if nothing had ever happened and the Ordinators hadn't requisitioned all of their necessary supplies. Nils rushed to catch up to her, incredulous.

"Wait – wait – are we still going to Rotheran, or..."

"Of _course_ we're going to Rotheran, fool!" she sputtered impetuously. Nils didn't think his question was particularly foolish, but perhaps she was just trying to double her defensive attitude after being humiliated so badly in front of him. She still never really admitted that she had made a terrible mistake. Nils wondered how many more bones would have to break before she could admit her faults?

"We have no supplies."

"No matter. Food, well, we can purchase meats from the Ashlanders. I've always done good business with them. They deal in Septims, you know."

"Which would have been great, if the Ordinators hadn't taken all of our gold."

"We'll think of something. It'll be fine! We'll just keep going. Indoranyon's not that much further northeast. If we get too hungry there's plenty of marshmerrow growing along the coast. It's not that bad. Maybe we'll get lucky and kill a Nix-Hound."

This was annoying. She had absolutely no common sense. Zaryth was completely sincere about all of this. She still seemed a bit unhinged after what had happened, but it didn't seem to lessen her enthusiasm one bit. Zaryth was certainly not the kind of person to allow anything to ruin an adventure. Not even getting her fingers snapped by a pair of psychopaths wearing golden masks. Nils had to take a deep breath to stop himself from snapping at her.

"Still... all your potions, your scrolls..." Nils had cataloged each item they had brought with them, and they had brought a lot of things. He may as well throw out the list.

"Potions, well, that certainly is a shame, but they're not at all necessary. Same with the scrolls. They were only meant to get us out of a quick bind. We're really not going to need any of these trifles if you make sure that nothing prevents me from casting any spells."

Zaryth was walking so quickly, all Nils could do was follow her. He was more than a little frustrated with her attitude right now.

"Sure. Because there was so much I could have done to prevent the Ordinators from breaking your fingers. What part of your mind thought that mouthing off to them was a good idea? No, really, I'm actually curious."  
Zaryth raised her hands up defensively. She turned on her heel, looking like she was about to retaliate with another scathing comeback, but when her mouth opened to say something she just froze, jaw hanging just like that. Her eyes gazed straight ahead of her in horror, at something that was past Nils' head. She uttered no sound.

Nils turned around slowly.

Immediately he felt a wave of nausea.

They were staring, just a few yards ahead of them, at what looked to be an ordinary Ashlander camp. There were about six huts made of the carapaces of giant insects, arranged around a bonfire. The bonfire was still blazing, and there was some meat roasting on a spit.

Stacked neatly in front of the bonfire was a pile of ten to twelve Dunmer corpses, limp, bloody limbs tangled together.

"By Akatosh..." was all that Nils could say.

Sickening, cruel, horrific, even these words could not adequately describe any of this. It was unreal. No, it was all extremely real, and he wished it weren't.

"Should we- I mean... maybe they have supplies. Food. You know." said Zaryth timidly. Her voice was shaking. She sounded like she was about to cry.

Nils nodded, though his legs felt like lead as he moved closer to the carnage. Bone charms hanging from the huts rattled in the breeze. The corpses were still fresh; upon examining the pile with greater detail Nils had to look away when he saw an older woman staring with dead eyes back at him. Even the wildlife had not yet caught whiff of the smell of death. They were alone here. Alone with twelve corpses.

Some of the dead Ashlanders were clad in Netch leather armor, others were wearing simple cloth garments.

One thing was certain; all of the bodies had suffered blunt force to either the head or the chest cavity.

Nils vividly remembered the cruel, spiked ebony maces held by each Ordinator.

These people had been killed less than an hour ago. Had it just been the two from earlier, or were there others involved? Did that even matter? All of these people had been brutally murdered.

It made sense. There was an Ashlander girl on the run from the Temple. The Ashlanders would have been even less cooperative than Nils and Zaryth. And in the end they had suffered far more than having their fingers broken in a display of power.

When Nils entered a hut through the animal-hide flaps he had to keep his breathing steady as he found that the dead Ashlanders had an abundance of salted meats. Surprisingly, the Ordinators had not 'requisitioned' any of this. That was strange. In any case, he quickly shoved all of this in his pack, eager to get out of here as quickly as possible.

When he emerged from the hut, he saw that Zaryth had a hazy look in her eyes as she gazed, mesmerized at the bodies, her head cocked to the side. Nils waved a hand in front of her face.

"Come on. If you keep looking at them, it'll just make it worse. Help me search the other huts."

What was wrong? Had she not been the one to suggest they search the camp in the first place?

"I..." her words hitched in her throat. "I... the Ordinators, I really... really..."

Tears streamed down her face.

Her hands were balled into tight fists. Her body was quivering. Suddenly, she looked so small and vulnerable, even more than she had when the Ordinators were torturing her. She had brought that part on herself, she really was walking right into that, but at the same time, she looked so... disturbed.

He stepped closer to her, placing a single hand on her arm. She did not flinch or recoil as he expected her to. She turned her head away from him.

She spoke between sobs, words half-coherent as she sputtered them out.

"I h-hate them, Nils. They take their doctrine, these lies, and just... interpreting it how _they_ want to... and-and they suppress magical advancement, tell us what we can't study... I... I really hate them! They're acting out of fear, because... because people are losing faith in the Tribunal, and... and they wonder _why."_

She rubbed her eyes, but the tears just kept coming. Nils had never seen her like this. She looked like a child. Come undone with her anger and fear.

"I... yes, they're scary. Alright? You were... urgh. You were right. I'm sorry. I know I was being s-stupid, and- and I'm sorry, I just-"

At the first sign of remorse Nils wrapped his arms around Zaryth, pulling her shuddering body closer to him. He felt his own eyes stinging with tears, but he had to keep himself together. By far, this was the most heinous act of violence he had ever seen committed by an authority figure. Guards and soldiers were supposed to protect others, to keep the peace. They were never supposed to use this level of force against innocents, not even the ones that were rude or uncooperative.

If the Ordinators were enacting the will of the Tribunal, Nils was now against anything the Temple stood for. How could a god ask for something like this?

Was _this_ why everyone treated that 'Nerevarine' word with either disgust or disbelief? He knew now why anyone would be hesitant to even talk about such a thing, if this was what would come from it.

He wanted to say something bold and heroic to Zaryth, because in this moment he _wanted_ to fight back against anyone who thought something like this was justified, but there was nothing he could say besides empty promises. He was one person. How could he fight against the gods? He couldn't even fight their dogmatic envoys. All he could do in this moment was hold Zaryth until she stopped crying. He opened his eyes slowly, staring up at the clear blue sky. It was strange, he thought vaguely, that the sky could still look so beautiful and pure in the wake of this massacre. The vultures were already circling around the camp, ugly black shapes against perfect blue, waiting for Nils and Zaryth to leave.

And finally, she did get all of her tears out. There were few other words to say, and after they had scavenged the rest of the camp, they continued on towards Indoranyon.


	17. Rotheran

**A/N: Psst! If you like Zaryth, you should check out The Shadow Unending, which is being written by a friend and fellow fanfic author, maximsk. He has involved Zaryth in the story which takes place in Skyrim during 4E 202. His writing is absolutely spectacular and you should check it out! Okok thanks for reading this and as always thanks for all of your feedback; it is always, always appreciated. Bye now! -sprints off-**

* * *

 **Indoranyon.**

Instead of feeling relief upon reaching their destination, the intimidating stone edifice only inspired dread within his heart.

The ancient Dunmer fortress certainly looked like it could hold strong during a siege, and it had already stood the unforgiving test of time.

Its impenetrable stone almost reminded him of an Imperial fortress, but more... claustrophobic. It was hard to describe the feeling he got from it. While the Imperials built castles that wrapped around a courtyard with many features in and around, Indoranyon from the outside looked nothing more than a three-tiered pyramid made of gray-black stone. No windows. He imagined that most of the interior was underground, but the facade was still immense.

There was no theme, no style, no unique or decorative elements at all, but perhaps that said something about the culture of the early Dunmer. Yet now that he thought upon it... disregarding the flashy Telvanni mushroom abodes, most Dunmer architecture was solemn and practical, much like the people.

The climb up the steps to the raised platform did not take as long as Nils had expected, though both were on alert for whatever strange people or creatures had decided to make this place their home since its abandonment. Thankfully, the propylon chamber was the only room they needed to go to, and it was directly accessible from the outside.

For the last few hours of their journey Nils had an odd, tumbling feeling in his belly, but that was less because of his uneasiness with the situation and more because the Nix-Hound meat they had taken from the Ashlander camp wasn't sitting well with him. Zaryth didn't seem to be bothered by it. Perhaps anyone who lived in Morrowind long enough could point at any foul beast that moved and call it food, but Nils wasn't quite at that level yet, and still needed to adjust to the... unique... local cuisine.

There were two sleek black obelisks in the otherwise bare room, nearly identical save for the writing. The monolith they were staring at read "ROTHERAN" from the top down, carved in Daedric lettering. That was something that had never changed, the Dunmer's use of the Daedric alphabet.

Waves of unknown magic danced within the stone and the claw-shaped platform holding it into place.

The swirling rubescent beams illuminated the room so well that Zaryth did not even need to cast her light spell. It actually hurt his eyes a bit to look at them, he found, and he begin to stare at the floor.

Then he realized something, and looked back up at Zaryth.

"Well... how are we supposed to do this, again?"

There was one distinct problem.

One index. Two people.

"Oh, it's nothing. So long as we both are holding onto it, and touch the pillar at the same time, we'll both be transported."

After hearing her tangent from earlier about people losing limbs from improper use of mysticism, Nils was more than a little uncomfortable about the idea of messing with the portals like this.

"Are you certain? Have you done this with two people before?"

"No," she admitted dispassionately, as if it made no difference at all. "I just know how propylons work. We'll be fine. I wouldn't very well put _myself_ at risk to prove a point!"

He opened his mouth to say something in response to that, and decided against it.

At this point, so many unfortunate things had already happened on this journey that Nils was ready to retreat, and just continue on to Vos where the crew of the Nereid's Wrath agreed to meet them. But Zaryth, sensing his apprehension, placed a single hand on her hip. Her red eyes narrowed into slits.

"You're not having a change of heart, are you? I had thought you wanted to have that book translated."

Nils wasn't sure what he even wanted anymore. Did he truly care about the little book at this point? It was so stupid. What he wanted _now_ was to go to the nearest inn, have a decent meal for once, wash up and maybe even get a chance to shave. That would be nice.

"I don't know. Maybe we ought to turn back."

Zaryth was still staring at him. It was a bit unsettling. Usually she didn't make eye contact with him all that much, her attention being caught by everything else that was far more interesting than he was.

"You don't mean to tell me..." the scholar started carefully.

Oh, no. She was using her lower register. It might have sounded more threatening if her voice hadn't been nearly drowned out by the trilling of the crystals. She paused a bit, as if she expected him to interrupt her already. When he didn't, she continued.

"We've traveled from Molag Amur through the Grazelands, had our supplies purloined by a pair of overzealous Ordinators, and finally... _finally_ found Indoranyon after miles of avoiding Daedra and rogue Ashlander witches, and only _now_ you want us to retreat? Oh, Nils, please don't tell me this is your idea of an adventure. Do you do this a lot? Walk for days, and upon arriving at your destination, you decide it's time to return home? What are you, some kind of nature enthusiast? I know that _I'm_ not leaving until I have the Indoranyon propylon index in my hands."

Nils only heard her taking one breath throughout all of this. She was... upset, to say the least. On their long journey to Indoranyon, Nils had discovered that this mission was not for Divayth Fyr at all. It was for Zaryth. She was the one who cared the most about these propylon indices, because she was planning on creating a master index that enabled her to travel to any stronghold from any propylon chamber. Needless to say, stealing the index back from a couple of potentially dangerous sorcerers seemed an unnecessarily dangerous act.

Zaryth held her hand out in front of her, palm upturned. At first, Nils was a bit confused as to what she wanted.

Oh, that's right. He still had the propylon index in his bag.

He stared at Zaryth a moment.

Looking past the Telvanni's haughty expression her face was still distinctly youthful. There was no getting past that, and she still didn't seem to like being reminded of that fact. It hadn't taken him very long at all to see through her prickly attitude to realize how self-conscious she was about not being taken seriously by her fellow Telvanni. Anyone less than at least a hundred years old was little more than an infant to them. She was a competent mage; why wouldn't she be? She had spent her entire life around powerful wizards. And despite her woeful lack of common sense, Nils would readily admit that the girl had an innovative way of thinking.  
And while ambition was not a bad thing in healthy doses, this eagerness to prove herself combined with her sudden loss of capacity for sensible thought was surely a recipe to get herself killed.

He knew he ought to turn around right now.

But he couldn't just leave her here...

Horrifyingly, it reminded him of the way he felt about his little sister back in Cheydinhal, how he always had to make sure she didn't get herself into _too_ much trouble.

By the Nine, why had he agreed to this madness?

"Well?" she asked, and time suddenly resumed and Nils was back in the present, with the same crystalline ringing in his ears. Zaryth was still demanding he relinquish the index.

Nils reached into his bag for the small tube-like object.

"Sorry, sorry," he said. "You're right. We've already come all this way. I'm not letting you have all the fun all by yourself. And I'm not letting you have my book. We're doing this together, and we'll both get what we want."

Zaryth betrayed herself as a shudder of relief coursed through her body.

She gripped the index tightly and motioned for Nils to do the same. As his hand touched hers to wrap around the index, he felt in her hand an involuntary flinch, a slight reflexive action that may have gone unnoticed had he not witnessed all ten of her fingers individually broken. That pressing guilt returned to his chest for a moment, but he forced it out of his mind as they simultaneously touched the pillar.

"See you in Rotheran," Zaryth said just before everything went white.

* * *

 **Rotheran, Propylon Chamber.**

The experience was... incorporeal. That was the only way he could describe it. The entire phenomenon was instantaneous, he was aware of this, but it felt as though his individual perception of time had slowed down during the process. He could actually feel himself breaking down into millions of invisible particles, whisked through space as though he were traveling through a high-pressure Dwemer steam pipe, and re-arranged into his original form.

It was incredible.

And, he realized, he was still standing on his two feet. He always imagined teleportation would be this uncomfortable experience that would drop him into some undignified position. And, thankfully, he still had all of his limbs, and a cursory glance at Zaryth confirmed that she still had all of hers.

The room they were standing in looked more or less identical to the one they had just left. Same loud crystals, same two obelisks. Well, the obelisks were actually a bit different. The one they were in front of now read "INDORANYON." The other one... "VALENVARYON." Nils wondered if Zaryth had the index to Valenvaryon. He hoped she did.

"Well! It worked!" Zaryth exclaimed.

She... sounded a bit surprised.

Nils resisted the urge to sigh.

"Well, now what?"

"Well... I can cast a chameleon spell on both of us so that we can slip out of here unnoticed. Just in case.. well, just in case they have patrols there."  
"Patrols? I thought they were just some rogue necromancers. Not an entire operation."

Zaryth had both of her hands on her face trying in vain to suppress her laughter. Apparently what he had just said was insanely funny.

"Ah... oh, no. Ha! I... I'm sorry, I just. You really haven't heard about Rotheran? The necromancers aren't the ones in charge here. They just work here. But they're not the only ones."

 _Work_ here...? This was starting to sound even more dangerous than before.

But they couldn't go back to Indoranyon without the Indoranyon propylon index, which was in the hands of someone in Rotheran!

Nils swallowed.

"Zaryth... what is there to know about Rotheran?"

"I... I think it's better that you see for yourself. Come on. If we're not idiots we may be able to blend in. Here. Put this on. The people here... are a racist bunch. More than the usual Dunmer xenophobia, I mean. It's better they don't ask questions about who you are."

Zaryth thrust a helmet into his hands. He only knew it was a helmet because he had seen the guards in Sadrith Mora wearing headgear similar to this... _thing._ If he hadn't known, he would have thought it was a purple, iridescent cephalopod, much resembling a large cuttlefish or squid, that someone had hardened and hollowed out for some bizarre reason. It _was_ exactly that, but it also happened to be an actual piece of head protection that only the Telvanni could have dreamed up. Or Hermaeus Mora.

He pulled it over his head, avoiding the urge to gag when he felt its multiple tentacles bouncing off his collar. Altogether he found it wasn't as horribly uncomfortable as he may have thought, though he did feel slightly more ridiculous than usual. The protruding, convex eye coverings (which, he couldn't place out of his mind, had once been part of the actual eyes of whatever aquatic creature this entire helm used to be) were made of some thin, translucent membrane, allowing him to see through it while still providing a solid layer over his eyes. Its original purpose, so Zaryth had claimed, was to protect the eyes during ash storms. That part was ingenious, really. Eventually, the cephalopod helms became a popular symbol of the Telvanni and many still wore them even in the absence of ash storms.

Surely Morrowind had to be the only region in Tamriel where Nils would look more conspicuous as a half-Dunmer than he would as some lunatic wearing a tentacle-creature over his head.

As they sneaked out of the propylon chamber under Zaryth's chameleon spell, blending them into their surroundings without the instability of full invisibility, it was a miracle that no one saw them. Outside it was a bit windier than it was in the Grazelands, though they were much further north now, in Sheogorad.

A sizable crowd of about twenty had gathered, shepherded into a line at the entrance by a bald thuggish-looking Dunmer man with a weathered face, and an equally thuggish female clad in dreugh armor. They both looked tough and not the ilk Nils would want to mess with, but somehow he doubted those two were the ringleaders. Hired help, more like. Bouncers. Nils had already gathered that this was some sort of exclusive club or venue, but he wasn't sure what for. A few of them were looking through their coin purses, counting their septims.

Nils and Zaryth made their way down the steps of the ziggurat which he could confirm looked nearly identical to Indoranyon. Once they were a bit of ways away from the rest of the group they began to talk. Nils had a _lot_ of questions to ask her.

"Do you have any kind of plan? Something that will get us out of here alive? How do we even get in when we don't have any money?"

"I'm a Telvanni noble, remember? I'm not some kind of peasant that needs to carry her wealth on her person at all times. I can make a promissory note."

"Who will pay for it? Not Divayth Fyr – they just robbed him! They'll know we're after the index."

"I'll write it out to be sent to my parents. Most of these people are rogue Telvanni or at least loosely affiliated, and the Velani family is prestigious enough that my name will be recognized. Ha! Won't it be a riot if they actually get the bill? Oh, I wish I could see the look on their faces. They must still think I'm wasting away in the Corprusarium, mad as a mudlark!"

Nils didn't know why she thought that idea was so funny. He thought it was a bit sad, actually. Regardless, her being of legitimate nobility despite her estrangement was certainly helpful in this situation.

Nils looked at the sky. Dusk was setting in, yet no torches were being lit.

"So... what _is_ this place? Some kind of skooma den? A... pleasure house?"

No, neither of those made any sense. Why would they have one in the middle of nowhere when both could easily be found in the cities?

"It's something like a..." Zaryth struggled to find the right word. "A place where people come to watch fights, and bet on the winner."

"An arena?" Nils asked, thinking about the great gladiatorial spectacles in Kvatch and the Imperial City.

"Yes... I suppose you could compare it to that," she answered hesitantly, still uncomfortable with using that as an analogue.

Nils supposed he would have to see for himself. He placed the cephalopod helm back on his head and walked with Zaryth towards the end of the line, where they waited patiently as the two doorkeepers patrolled around them.

They were ushered first into a modestly sized vestibule, lit by a chandelier of candles that emitted a curious blood-red glow.

The candles were probably the most interesting thing in the starkly furnished room, which had nothing more than a table that seated an elder-looking Dunmer woman. Nils had seen some very old Dunmer during his time in Morrowind. He had seen a very, _very_ old Telvanni wizard, but Divayth Fyr had actually looked rather good for his age, all things considered. This white-haired woman looked positively ancient, almost corpselike, as if she could fall apart at the lightest touch. Her skin was thinly stretched over her bony face and her jaw was set in a perpetual scowl. Even the forest-green robe she wore may have been considered fine attire in another century, but now just looked tattered and dirty. Nils briefly wondered if she were a vampire. It was hard to tell, but her skin tone seemed even paler than his own.

"Twenty-five drakes each," came her dusty voice. "And no helmets allowed inside the arena."

Thankfully, it was dark enough that his mixed heritage may not be too apparent. At this point though, he wondered why his appearance would be so much more offensive than the old lady in front of him. He slipped the helmet off and held it under his arm.

Zaryth went straight away to chatting with the woman that looked like a corpse.

"Apologies, may I write a promissory note? I'm afraid a woman of my standing isn't always in the habit of carrying gold on her person. Not even when I have my personal guard here with me."

The decrepit woman did not change her expression.

"Who is your family?"

"Velani. My parents are Mevrusa and Dralwyn Velani, surely you've heard of them before. They're a bit reclusive but we are of course members of one of the oldest noble families of House Telvanni. You must recognize the names if you've wandered outside in the past century or two."

Judging by the woman's appearance, Nils wouldn't be surprised if she hadn't.

"Pardon... I last heard the daughter of Mevrusa and Dralwyn died of illness not too long ago."

Almost ten years was apparently 'not too long ago.' Nils could hear Zaryth clenching her teeth. Yet she maintained her front perfectly.

"Oh... that was my dear sister, Zaryth. She... she had the Divine Disease. We had to take her to the Corprusarium, and we haven't heard from her since. I... I'm sorry. I don't like to speak of her so much anymore. I've been so busy with my apprenticeship, it's no wonder you've never heard of me. Do you have a pen? Ah, thank you. To whom am I making this out to?"

* * *

 **Rotheran, Arena.**

Once the matter of their admission fee was out of the way, they were led to the arena proper.

It was enormous. It was about the size of the arena in Kvatch, but entirely within an enclosed space. And while the antechamber had been confined and dark, the rectangular arena pit itself was illuminated with at least a hundred torches. The patrons strolled around on the upper floor, leaning over the balcony occasionally to gaze down at the pit below. It was all very professional. A fully-stocked and fully-seated bar was on one side of the room, and there was even a vendor selling all sorts of food one might find at any other spectator event; crab meat croquettes, ash yam fritters, and some other items that Nils could not identify. There were a few betting areas where clusters of people jumped over each other to view the lineup, but Nils didn't want to look at that just yet. He was still taking in the fact that a massive operation like this was able to flourish so well if it involved some kind of illegal gladiatorial combat. He supposed he would find out soon enough just what these sports entailed.

Perhaps Zaryth had been exaggerating when she said that his appearance as a half-Dunmer would make him stand out, for he saw at least four Orsimer and twice as many Altmer in the crowd. He even thought he saw a Breton or two, but they could have easily been Nords or Imperials. It was hard to tell in this lighting. No one gave him any trouble, regardless.

He thought Zaryth might know where to go, but she looked as equally lost as he did.

"We'll wait for them to start the fights. We'll search around while everyone is distracted."

Just after she said that, it looked as if the first 'fight' was about to begin. Nils knew this because one of the Dunmer on the upper, upper balcony had begun to speak, magically amplifying his voice so that he could be heard over the dull roar of the crowd. He addressed the attendees as though they were his subjects, and he the Emperor, attending a significantly important gladiator match at the Imperial City's arena.

"Welcome to our lively Pit of Slaughter at the one and only Rotheran Arena!"

This elicited a series of whoops and cheers among the crowd. It was certainly a rowdy bunch, though anyone willingly attending something referred to as a "lively Pit of Slaughter" for entertainment must be a bit deranged. To put it politely.

The Dunmer at the balcony waited for the crowd to calm down. When Nils squinted he could see that he wore a robe made of some silky, shimmery fabric.

"Now then! There's one hundred and fifty-two in attendance this evening, which is the highest turnout we've had all Hearthfire!"

Again, more screams and clapping.

The Dunmer waited patiently yet again. Nils wanted them to hurry on with these horrific games so that they could grab the index and leave. He'd also like to look into getting a squad of legionnaires to clear this place out. He hadn't even seen anything yet, but he could already imagine it was going to be very, very bad.

"If you're here for the first time, this is how it's gonna work. As you may have already seen at the betting table, each fighter is matched in elimination rounds. We have twelve combatants tonight, a mix of beastmen, actual men, mer, animals, and even Daedra, but only one will win! Hurry and place your bets! The first match is about to begin!"

A steady drum beat started playing as the first two combatants were brought out.

First, he saw a frenzied Nix-Hound held on a chain, gnashing its jaws. As it rabidly chomped the air, Nils could see that its teeth had been filed into sharp points.

And then... they brought out a lithe, lean Argonian male with mottled viridian and gray scales, slave bracer slapped on his left arm. His fully-armored handler also kept him on a chain, but he wasn't putting up any fight like the hound. He casually walked into the arena as though he were taking a morning stroll.

The whole idea of this seemed so unreal, that _people_ were meant to go up against vicious beasts for sport. He had thought he had seen true sadism when he witnessed the treatment of the slaves on the Omaren plantation, but that didn't even come close to what was happening here. This wasn't just treating people as property. This was people paying actual money – a lot of money, judging by the size of this operation – to watch unwilling combatants get ripped to shreds.

"Now then. Allow me to introduce to you our first two fighters of the night. We caught this runaway slave in Suran a couple weeks ago, wearing silks to trick people into thinking he was a freed Argonian. He may not look like much to you, but he's torn apart a Clannfear with a wooden staff alone. He'll be going up against Posy the Nix-Hound. She's a lot meaner tonight because she hasn't been fed in three days, but then again, neither has Sees-Through-Dusk!"

Nils drowned out the cacophony of screams and boos all around him and a shiver went down his spine at that name he instantly recognized.

Sees-Through-Dusk. The Blades informant he was supposed to meet in Suran! He was _here_? If only he could say something to Zaryth about it. They had to get him out of here. They _had_ to. Him and everyone else, though how many were people and how many beasts Nils wasn't sure about. He knew they'd send an entire troop to clear this place if he told them that they were keeping a Blade here. But would they be too late? They were in Sheogorad... the closest outpost that could spare that many legionnaires would be Fort Darius, by Gnisis.

Sees-Through-Dusk was handed a long wooden staff that had no handle, about six feet in length. For someone who had been starved and tortured for weeks he still waved mirthfully at the crowd, not even allowing the boos and screeching he excited from the spectators to faze him. Nils was tempted to cheer him on, but then the drum beats grew louder and faster.

The handlers were unlocking the chains, though they left the Argonian's slave bracer intact. The fight was about to begin.


	18. The Elusive Argonian

**Rotheran, Arena.**

Nils was aware that Zaryth was pulling gently on his sleeve to capture his attention.

"I need to know the outcome of this fight," he asserted, though he didn't know if the Dunmer heard him over the animal roar of the crowd. Zaryth mentioned something about locating the index, but Nils needed to watch this fight. This was Sees-Through-Dusk, the Argonian he had been looking for before he had gotten himself in this mess.

Frustrated, Zaryth eventually wandered off. Nils kept his focus on the arena.

Sees-Through-Dusk bounced into a defensive stance, distributing his feet equal distance apart from each other, pointed outwards. His tail swished back and forth.

The movement happened all at once. Sees-Through-Dusk began to spin his wooden staff in front of him, alternating between hands. He spun it faster and faster until it resembled the spokes of a carriage wheel in motion. His entire body was involved in this motion and for a moment Nils wondered what the purpose of such a flashy movement was, but it soon became apparent.

The Nix-Hound whose name was "Posy" according to the announcer dug its claws into the ground, snarling as it leaped to attack.

" _Smash her teeth out, lizard-man!"_ Nils heard one articulate female cry out.

All of the staff-twirling proved to be a very useful defensive maneuver. The Nix-Hound could not penetrate this rapidly spinning barrier, making squelching noises that sounded like whimpers as it bounced back again and again from lunging at its would-be prey. Foaming at the mouth, she growled at the Argonian and attempted to leap at him yet again.

This time, Sees-Through-Dusk did something unexpected. He charged towards Posy the Nix-Hound, his stance becoming a forwards lunge as he made an upwards sweeping motion with the staff, spraying dirt in the beast's eyes. Blinded, the hound cried out, still snapping in desperation at her unseen target. Sees-Through-Dusk somersaulted under the hound's tall, gangly legs, grappling and rolling with it until he was on top of the overturned beast. Holding the wooden staff upright with one hand above the other, he brought the base of weapon down into the Nix-Hound's sternum. With a superb mastery of balance, he shimmied up the six-foot staff as if it were a climbing pole, forcing all of his weight into that one vital spot on the hound's chest. With a bone-splitting crack, the miserable creature's suffering had ended.

Nils exhaled. The Argonian had won the fight.

Sees-Through-Dusk bowed deeply to the bloodthirsty crowd as the two handlers returned to the pit to clean up the mess and bind the Argonian in chains once more. As if this elegant and artful fighter were the same ilk as that rabid Nix-Hound he had just fought. It made Nils feel sick.

The announcer was already beginning his introduction speech for the next two opponents. Something about a 'Velothi' woman and a scamp. Not having the time nor emotional energy to view every fight, he scanned the crowd for Zaryth.

His heart began to pound. Why did he let her wander off on her own? This place was so dangerous, what if someone had –

"I haven't found out anything about the index, but the old lady - the one taking the money - has a key," came a familiar voice behind him.

Nils' shoulders untensed. He turned around to see Zaryth, looking mildly annoyed but mostly frayed.

The din of the rabble had dimmed to a murmur during this brief intermission between fights, so Nils and Zaryth kept their voices down.

"For the slave bracers?"

"I... think so? Detection spells aren't so specific. But that doesn't get me closer to what _I_ want."

"Are you kidding? How could anything be more important right now than freeing these prisoners?"

"Well... that's important too, I suppose," she said, putting a finger on her chin. "You're right. Maybe the slaves can tell us who is in possession of the propylon index."

Nils wasn't even going to comment on her priorities. But stealing the old woman's keys seemed to be the logical next step, regardless of what goals they wanted to accomplish.

Suddenly, he heard the roar of the masses again. Apparently the fight was just about to begin. He craned his neck just enough to catch a glimpse of the next two opponents. The announcer hadn't lied about the scamp. It was just like any other scamp; long eared, short in stature and a sniveling face. The... 'Velothi' woman was a Dunmer with skin as iron-dark and weathered as an Ashlander's. Wasn't Velothi just another name for Ashlander? It didn't matter. He didn't have time to think about it.

After a brief formulation of plans which included a very clever observation Zaryth had made, Nils found the ancient Dunmer woman overseeing one of the betting tables, her pursed lips in a thin line.

Nils leaned close to whisper in her crusty ear. She was a bit taller than he was. Only a little.

"Muthsera – see the mer wearing the brocade doublet? He has been shortchanging the other bookies. Watch him closely – he will give a hundred-drake piece when betting fifty, then ask for his change back in different ways to confuse him."

The woman only nodded in acknowledgment, eyes narrowing to observe the swindler in the act. Yet after a moment, she turned to face Nils.

"I have no time for any more of Volyn's indiscretions. He had been banished from the nobility of House Redoran and drowns his sorrows in skooma and prostitutes and has of late become increasingly rude to our staff. Now that he has resorted to this sort of theft it appears his inheritance must be running out. He will not be missed. Kill him for me. I give you permission."

"My arms were confiscated by your guards."

The woman grumbled something under her breath and handed him a sheathed dagger.

Nils had not expected _this._ The way he and Zaryth had planned this out was that Nils would tip her off to the crime, she would order one of her lackeys to deal with the offender or deal with him herself, and then offer a reward to Nils. But to kill him? Back when he had been a city guard in Cyrodiil Nils had to kill a few criminals for resisting arrest. Most of them were intoxicated or mad and he mainly just felt pity for them. But to just murder someone in cold blood, even if they were among the foulest scum that walked this plane?

"You do know a lot about the patrons of this place, muthsera."

"I never forget a face. Or a name. You are Nils, the outlander servant to Mistress Velani, correct? Call me Irvsie."

Nils unsheathed the blade she had given him. He glimpsed sleek, black ebony. He did not draw any suspicion to himself by staring at it, though he was tempted to, for ebony was not something he saw very often, let alone _held_. This tiny dagger alone was worth more gold than what his father made in a year.

The scam-artist wearing the brocade doublet was now walking away from the stand, patting his coinpurse.

The act itself was not difficult at all to do. Nils walked up to the man, asked if he was looking for a new skooma dealer, and as he opened his mouth to speak, he simply slashed his throat. Blood sprayed out his neck like a fountain. The man's eyes bulged and he choked and made sputtering sounds as he dropped to the floor. Dead. The fact that Nils didn't feel anything at all was more shocking to him than the knowledge that he had just killed an unarmed person.

Those who were nearby backed away immediately at the sight of blood, though a few clustered around them at a safe, observing distance, whooping and screaming as if this were the outcome of another one of their sick arena fights.

What had he just done...? By the gods, he was a murderer. It didn't matter if he was a skooma-addled weasel that enjoyed watching people getting tortured. He had just killed an unarmed person. And he still felt... well, he wasn't sure what he felt. He was trying to do the right thing. He hoped he was doing the right thing.

Some bouncer drew a chitin club and ran towards the messy scene, but Nils' new friend Irvsie pushed through the crowd and stood in front, waving her hands.

"He has done a better job at catching this fetcher in the act than you have. Make yourself useful and dispose of his corpse."

The guard in bonemold armor cut the recently deceased nobleman's coinpurse off his belt and tossed it to Irvsie. She carefully counted out the coins with her spindly fingers and dropped them back in the pouch, holding the entire thing out to Nils as compensation for the job he had done.

There was one notable thing about all of this. She had not yet asked for the dagger back, and he sheathed it surreptitiously and attached it to his own belt while politely refusing her payment.

"Mistress Irvsie, this is far too much for me to accept. However... there is one matter with which you may be able to help me..."

If she still had eyebrows the woman would probably be raising them, judging by the way the wrinkles in her forehead suddenly moved. She pocketing the gold herself. She still did not say anything about the ebony dagger. For one who did not forget a face she was quick to forget an expensive weapon...

"Speak quickly then, outlander. You have taken care of a nuisance, and my gratitude only extends so far."

"While we were watching the fights, my mistress confided in me that she was interested in purchasing one of your slaves. Perhaps you would consider discussing this further?"

"None of today's combatants are for sale. These are no common slaves. It takes a long time to break them in until they are ready to fight in the arena."

"They don't need to be a fighter," Nils said quickly, anticipating this response. "She'd prefer an Argonian, for they are best at diving for pearls, but any race would do provided they are accustomed to manual labor. She doesn't like dealing with the slave market at Tel Aruhn. Says that Archmagister Gothren just levied some ridiculous taxes on slaves."

"Why don't you bring your mistress, and I can show her what I can spare? I'm afraid the selection is rather sparse..."

"That's alright." Nils thought himself quickly out of her last question. "I wanted to spare Mistress Velani the burden of going down to the dungeons and selecting one; it is rather unbecoming for a noble lady such as her, you understand. She trusts me to make the selection for her. My lady will be ready to pay you when we are finished."

"Very well. Follow me."

Irvsie led Nils down a corridor. This area was not meant to be explored by the public, and thus they had not bothered to redecorate it. Stones were loose in some places and Nils could still see the tattered banners from the ancient House that had long abandoned this stronghold.

"You mentioned there is a process that your fighters must go through?"

"Yes. First, our new arrivals undergo vigorous training day and night by our staff. The first to pass out from exhaustion is flogged in front of the others until the skin is flayed from their backs, then healed to prevent blood loss, and flogged again, often repeated several times. This process, though time-consuming, is also used when necessary as punishment."

"Didn't the announcer also say that the Argonian was being starved?"

"Once they've earned a place in the circuit we can only starve them for a few days at a time, for a malnourished body makes for a poor fighter, but we still can viably use the promise of food and fatigue potions to motivate them to fight. Starvation is better used as a tool to teach fledglings the concept of self-restraint. We've perfected that method, if you'd like to hear it."

Nils could already guess what it entailed, and didn't want to hear it in detail.

"Have any slaves ever tried to kill themselves by losing?" he asked. This old witch had a strangely detached way of describing the torment inflicted upon the slaves. Most like her had some cruel sadistic streak that drove them into doing what they did, but she spoke with a cold professionalism that brought a chill through Nils' spine. To her, overseeing the torture of these people was just as mundane as a foreman supervising the other workers in a mine.

They turned a corner and were descending down a long ramp.

"Common beasts are expendable, as you observed from the first fight, but if one of our slaves is losing badly we can intervene quickly. Winners are rewarded, but the loser is always punished, with increasing severity if we suspect they lost on purpose. And yes, we have methods of force-feeding if they try to starve themselves to death. Before you ask anything else, I _have_ thought of everything. I have dealt in slaves long before you were born, Nils. My profession held a great deal of respect in my House before the Empire came in and persecuted us as fleshmongers, forcing the now barely-legal trade into private auctions in dark alleys. In short, yes, I know how to manage my property."

* * *

 **Rotheran, Waistworks, Slave Quarters.**

They stopped in front of a freshly polished red door, which was obviously not part of the original decor. The woman's keys jangled as she selected the proper key for the lock and led Nils into a dark, humid chamber. It smelled terrible in there, like the sewers. Irvsie cast a light spell into a brazier, which glowed a harsh blue. Five cell doors lined each side of the wall, which meant ten cells in total. The doors were wrought-iron and solid, with only a small barred window at the top of each door.

This was a dreadful place to keep any living soul.

Nils heard a whimpering coming from one of the cells. In response, Irvsie lifted a short flailed whip from the table and cracked it in the air with surprising strength for her skeletal arm. The crying ceased immediately.

"You said your mistress would prefer an Argonian? I've..." she counted on her fingers. "Six, no, five, Asum's dead... only three that I can spare..."

"I'm an Argonian. Your mistress can have whatever she wants of me," came a sibilant voice from a cell nearby.

"Quiet, slave, or I'll make you throw up that rat meat and feed it to you again," the old woman snarled.

Rat meat. As if that sounded much better to start with. While the cave rats of Morrowind were much larger and more edible than their Cyrodiilic cousins, Nils still found the meat rather greasy and unappetizing when he had the misfortune of sampling it at a cheap cornerclub at Balmora. But he supposed that after being starved, it was better than nothing. He shuddered at the idea of Nix-Hound meat ever becoming appealing to him.

He wondered when Zaryth was going to show up and make a move. Hopefully she had been able to slip through that red door in the hallway before Irvsie locked it again.

He did still have the ebony dagger, and might be able to do this himself...

As the woman went to unlock one of the cell doors to show him one of the Argonians she had in stock, her arm froze in midair, still holding the keyring. Her entire body froze, actually, and she stood motionless for a few moments until she fell to the ground, stiff and corpselike. More corpselike than she looked before, that is, for she already looked like a dead one. This was the work of a paralysis spell. That would do it. He turned and spotted the obvious culprit, Zaryth, motioning with a finger over her throat to urge him to finish the job.

Nils drew the ebony dagger again and knelt beside the woman, staring at her deadened eyes. He knew she could still see and hear him, and was probably screaming all kinds of profanities at him in her head.

"On second thought, I don't think we're interested in purchasing any slaves today. But thanks for the dagger, old bint."

He brought Irvsie's own dagger across her throat. Her frail skin cut so easily, like paper. For the second time today Nils drew blood so effortlessly. As her life faded so did her blue magelight, plunging the room into the same near-pitch blackness. With revulsion, he fumbled over her body until he found the keyring. He pried it loose from her stiff fingers and looked around quickly.

Judging by the roar of the crowd and the announcer's muffled voice, Nils could tell that above, the fight had just ended. He saw that Zaryth raised her hands as if to cast another light spell, but Nils quickly told her to stop. The lackeys were going to come back soon. He stared dumbly at the dead woman at his feet, robe soaked in blood What was he going to do about the body?

"Psst! In here! Bring the keymistress too."

It was that same slithering voice from before. With shaking hands, Nils tried key after key in the dark until he found the proper one for the cell. He and Zaryth dragged Irvsie's body through the open door and crouched low themselves. There was not much room in there for one person, let alone three people and a corpse. They were all so close that he could hear the Argonian slowly chewing his rat meat. This was probably Sees-Through-Dusk, the one that had won the battle from earlier. Undoubtedly that meat was his "reward" for pleasing the crowd with such a great fight.

"I know you," whispered Nils quickly. "We're going to get you out of here."

The Argonian stopped chewing for a moment, glowing yellow eyes flicking up to look in his direction.

"Only those of the Hist can claim to know me. The sentiment, however, is appreciated."

He calmly resumed his eating, apparently savoring the cave rat as best as he could.

"I'm with the Blades. We'll get you out of here, and get the Legion in here to clear it out for the rest," Nils promised. He heard the sound of heavy boots thumping in the hallway.

"You're with the _what?"_ hissed Zaryth. Oops. He had some explaining to do.

The Argonian put a finger to his lips. Nils crouched even lower so that his belly was on the ground.

Chains were rattling down the hallway. The Dunmer woman from before. Must be. At least she had survived the fight. A cell door opened, and she was shoved roughly inside. At least, that was what it sounded like.

"Well? Don't I get my reward too?" she asked.

The hinges of the door creaked as the guard slammed it shut.

"Not anymore," he said gruffly. It sounded like a stick was being banged on another cell door. "M'shan, you're up next. _Up_ you lazy cat."

Water splashed. At least, Nils hoped it was just water.

"Ahh! M'shan is ready! This one will not lose again!"

More chains. More scuffling about. They were out within a matter of minutes.

Nils did not dare move until the guards were well out of the slave pen. Even when there was silence, he still did not move.

"Your mistress can cast her light spell now," said the Argonian. Zaryth happily re-ignited the magical brazier.

There was not much to the cell. Some filthy bedroll, a bucket for refuse, and the stool Sees-Through-Dusk was sitting cross-legged atop. Zaryth was pressed against the wall for lack of space. Nils remained on the floor, raising to a crouching position with his elbows resting on his knees.

"The others are quiet. Understandably so, yes? Last escape attempt, Asum was... well, we prefer not to speak of it. But a helper from the outside, this is new, new and exciting. Thank you for killing Mistress Irvsie."

"It looked like she'd been alive a bit too long." Nils shrugged. "Are there any other exits?"

"No. Only way out is through the front door. But I hope you do not misunderstand. I do not leave without the others."

Nils couldn't bear the idea of leaving the others here. But it was just too dangerous. He had to come back later with a squad of legionnaires behind him. Even if he and Zaryth managed to find the propylon index (which they had very little time left to find), they'd only be able to transport two people at a time, and it'd be far too risky and time-consuming to phase between strongholds to teleport all ten, twelve including him and Zaryth.

"We have a method of fast transport out of here, the propylon chamber, but if they see us leave we'd all get killed trying to get all of you – "

"Speaking of..."

That was Zaryth, of course.

"Oh. Right. Have you seen anything like this?"

Nils rummaged through his things for the small black tube. He held up the Rotheran propylon index for the Argonian to see. He looked upon it thoughtfully, then nodded.

"Nnn, yes. The item you seek rests in the pockets of Rols Ienith. The goon with the bald head and tattoos. Free me and I can snatch it for you, smooth-skins. M'shan is not a good fighter and they will keep reviving him to prolong the fight for their amusement. It will be a while before they are back here."

Sees-Through-Dusk held up the arm with the metal bracer. Nils found a key that was thin and bitted on both sides and inserted it into the lock. The heavy thing thudded to the ground and Sees-Through-Dusk flexed his wrist happily.

"Ahh, that feels good. Work on freeing the others while I'm gone, but keep the doors closed. Tell them to keep quiet and no harm will come if they stay in their cells. I will return with your propy-thing shortly."

With that, the Argonian vanished.

"He – he didn't even wait for his magicka to recover. That is an advanced illusion spell..." Zaryth began, but shook her head, for once in her life deciding that there were more important things to think about.

Such as... how in Oblivion were they going to manage to sneak ten prisoners past one hundred and fifty people without getting killed?

True to his word, Sees-Through-Dusk had been fast, returning in under three minutes. He had his wooden staff with him too. The Argonian presented the index to Nils, who in turn passed it over to Zaryth's already outstretched hand without even looking at the thing. Maybe in some dark crevice of his mind the thought occurred that she might go ahead and Recall out of here now that she already had what she wanted. But he didn't think so poorly of her. She really wasn't a bad person, as much as she tried to make people think she was.

"Now what?"Nils asked, looking at the Argonian expectantly. He had this comforting, calm confidence about him, and he seemed to have some kind of plan.

"I can keep them distracted long enough while you escape with the others. Don't worry about me. Another will easily take my place. If you really are what you say, tell that sugar-tooth in Balmora that the old man was right about you."

When Nils realized that the Argonian's plan included sacrificing himself, he was about to say something to stop him.

It was Zaryth who beat him to it.

"There is another way," she started, timidly. The hesitancy with which she spoke made it sound like she had been agonizing over this already for several minutes. "I've never cast a Frenzy spell of this magnitude, but... I think I can do it. I want Nils to come with me. Get the others ready to escape. And by that I mean at the door, ready to run out of here at a very brisk pace."

That was that, then.

* * *

 **Rotheran, Arena.**

Nils vaguely knew of the effects of Frenzy. It goaded its victim into attacking the first thing in sight, including allies. But it was mainly used when overwhelmed by small groups of say, two or three. To use it to fill this entire room...

"Drink this," she said as they rushed together through the corridor, back up the ramps. By now Nils had grown accustomed to drinking whatever potions Zaryth thrust at him, because they were always quite useful or even life-saving, and he thought nothing of gulping it down without even asking of its contents. He had forgotten to ask how he would be able to resist the Frenzy spell. This was probably it.

"Now... I didn't want to say it back there, but this spell is going to cost every last drop of magicka in me. I might... well, I'm not going to die, but mages aren't supposed to use _all_ of their magicka at once, especially not on one spell. It's... exhausting, ravaging. Mentally and physically. It's entirely possible I lose consciousness. You may have to carry me. I've got potions that can help you. They're in my bag."

"I can do that."

He hoped.

At least she was actually telling him this beforehand, rather than let him muddle through things on his own.

When they found themselves again in Rotheran's upper level, Zaryth walked, very casually, into the fray. He could only follow close at her side.

She lifted both of her hands up as though she were cheering on the gruesome fight that Nils thankfully could not observe from his position.

A pale green aura saturated the entire arena. Wispy, swirling, all-encompassing, It became like a thick fog and it was impossible to see through. There was an almost universal screech resounding through the halls of the arena, which quickly turned into shouts of confusion, profane curses. Nils felt a bit of a tingling sensation as the spell washed over him too, but thankfully the potion had made him temporarily immune to its effects. When the green mist finally lifted, Nils saw Zaryth's entire body quaking dangerously, on the edge of falling. He caught her right there. She was so light that he could cradle her like a child. As she had feared, she was truly out cold.

Nils wrestled his way of the way of the mob quickly enough to observe her impressive handiwork.

All one hundred and fifty-two people were engaged in fights with each other. Rough, dirty fights, drinks being thrown, teeth knocked out, blows below the belt. This was what Frenzy looked like. All of these people had this horrible anger bubbling inside of them, maddened with this inexplicable hatred for _everything_ and had to get it out in the only way they knew how: trying to kill every single thing that was in their way. Even the fancy-robed announcer on the dais was in the middle of throttling his lackey.

The Rotheran games were rather abruptly halted.

Thanks to Zaryth.

Completely thanks to her, it was mayhem up above. Below, Sees-Through-Dusk had unleashed all of the Daedra and animals, and he saw a Clannfear tearing apart one guard with its claws, and a Kagouti chomping down with its massive jaws on another.

Nils didn't think it possible, but Rotheran had become even more of a madhouse.

This was outrageous, unbelievable, but mostly amazing. He'd never seen anything like it before.

He wished Zaryth could see how, because of the chaos she caused, everyone was too concerned with killing each other that no one noticed the ten freed prisoners escaping in plain view out the front.

She'd done it. She'd really saved all of these people.


	19. The End of the World

**Note: "The Tale of Sigurd the Fearless" is a song I made up loosely based on part of the legendary Nibelungenlied, adapted for the Elder Scrolls universe and including my own uhh... creative liberties? Hope I didn't ruin it too much for you!**

* * *

 **Sheogorad Region.**

The group of twelve left Rotheran with very fat coinpurses after they robbed the arena's chests of gold in the living quarters. Apparently running a slave arena was a lucrative business, for this was the most amount of money that Nils had ever seen in one place. And while he was glad to be able to pocket a substantial amount of gold for himself, he was relieved that all of these freed people would have more than enough Septims to last them while they made their escape.

Indeed, by the time they were on the road headed to Dagon Fel, the only ones who had stayed around him and Zaryth had been Sees-Through-Dusk, the Ashlander-looking woman, and another Argonian. The others had scattered ways by now.

Sees-Through-Dusk had been happily chatting with Tanan in Jel for a long while, and Nils could not understand a word of it. He had tried to share a conversation with the Dunmer woman whose name he found was Adusamsi (he wasn't even going to try to pronounce her last name), but she was so quiet and stone-faced, he thought he might be bothering her.

He longed for a moment alone with Sees-Through-Dusk, and he met his slitted yellow eyes many times along the walk, knowing that he must have had similar thoughts. But soon, Nils reminded himself. Once they reached Dagon Fel they would have plenty of time.

They walked until the sun rose over the coastline and the wispy morning fog lifted, and they kept walking for hours, knowing that once the illusion spell wore off, anyone who had survived Rotheran may already be in pursuit. Slaves, even illegally-acquired ones, were an expensive commodity that people tended not to like losing. And so they merely continued along the rocky path in the Sheogorad wilds. This region was far more rugged and overgrown than the Grazelands. Wild mushrooms around twenty feet tall greeted them at every turn. They even had moss hanging from their caps. Nils realized that they were known as Emperor Parasols, and indeed, they did resemble a giant parasol, but he wondered what the Dunmer had called them before Western colonization.

On second thought, they probably just called them giant mushrooms. So far, even the city names translated very literally. Balmora, stone forest. Sadrith Mora, mushroom forest. This was probably Giant-Sadrith. But one thing was tugging at him... what did forests have to do with Hermaeus Mora?

... Nils decided he was just going to forget about that and keep looking at the scenery.

There were these curious shrub-like growths, with stalks and mushroom caps stemming out from its base instead of leafy branches. He'd never seen anything like that before. It was just going to be another one of those moments where Morrowind seemed like this truly bizarre, foreign place. At the same time, he was beginning to get used to insects the size of hounds and floating jellyfish. It wasn't all bad, even if the wilds were much more dangerous than Cyrodiil.

It wasn't until dusk fell that they finally allowed themselves some respite from their exhausting walk. They had come across a bleak place; an abandoned eggmining village. Not only was the place deserted, it looked like a fire had ravaged the place. The surrounding hovels were scorched, most of which only had foundation and a few timbers remaining. It looked like they weren't the first to make a stop here; the newest addition was a firepit in the center that had been recently used, with several empty bottles tossed around the site as well. This makeshift firepit had more than likely caused the blaze long after the village's desertion, especially if some reckless skooma-eaters and other degenerates on their way to the (hopefully) now defunct arena had been lighting fires here. It was a good place to set up camp, for a natural stone wall protected them from most of the coastal winds.

They shared the rest of their supplies, which was really just what was left of the dried hound meat in Nils' pack. The others were eating it with much more gusto than he was, which made him all the more thankful that they were out of that horrible place.

A piece of jerky in his hand, Nils stared at the entry to the abandoned mine which had long been boarded up.

"What do you think happened here?" he asked to no one in particular. By now, Zaryth was conscious, but she was so exhausted that she wasn't her usual talkative self. She was curled up against a rock, nibbling on her food as she listened.

"Is it not obvious to an outlander?" responded Adusamsi. This was one of the first times she had actually said anything to any of them, so everyone fell silent. She continued.  
"A mining village like this dies with its eggmine. If they have somewhere else to go, the inhabitants all get up and leave. It's been happening too many times lately. Surely you know the nature of the Blight disease from Red Mountain, carried by the ash storms. Not even the Ghostfence can contain it. It is a slow, cruel killer. If the Kwama queen is infected, the entire mine suffers, and the eggs produced are poisonous."

They were all sitting down now, circled around a glass lantern because none of them dared to light a fire. If someone from Rotheran were still in pursuit, they did not want to give away their position.

"But... can't the Blight be cured?" Nils asked. He didn't mention that he had been quickly cured of the Blight himself with just a simple potion. People seemed to think it was a big deal. And maybe it was. The Empire had been increasingly restricting trade to and from Vvardenfell and was considering placing a full quarantine on the province just to control the rapid spreading of the disease to not only the mainland of Morrowind but all of Tamriel.

Adusamsi nodded slowly at his question, though she seemed confused, as if this were something he should understand already.

"Well, yes. It is possible. But not easy. I come from Maar Gan. It is a Velothi settlement in the Ashlands, built around an egg mine. It was the sole provider of food for the entire village as, I imagine, it was for these poor souls," she said, gesturing around the abandoned shacks. "When the Queen caught the Blight, it spread to the entire colony. Her protectors became feverish and violent. It became too dangerous to enter the mine, and several healers were even killed by the Kwama when they dared to make an attempt. There was not much food left in our stores to go around, and many were already deserting the village. Some of us that remained began to have bad dreams about Dagoth Ur, and we were acting unlike ourselves. The Temple priest said we were suffering from soul sickness. We thought we were all doomed, but then the Nerevarine arrived in Maar Gan."

She spoke that last line with absolute reverence. The Nerevarine. Was this that mysterious Ashlander woman the Ordinators were looking for? And the bad dreams... was that the same as what the innkeeper in Tel Aruhn had been suffering from? Nils still remembered his cold touch, the dark whispers in his ear about Dagoth Ur and the Sixth House.

"You talking about that Peakstar girl? Sounds like she's been making the rounds," said Sees-Through-Dusk, leaning his back against a rock.

"Yes. She fearlessly went into the egg mine, fought her way through hordes of Blighted worker drones, and cured the queen with a spell. When we told her about the dreams, she traveled to a hidden cave and killed the ash creature that had been corrupting us with Dagoth Ur's influence. We all were released from his spell that day because of Peakstar. She saved Maar Gan. I don't believe the lies the Temple says. I have no doubt in my mind of her power. She is the Incarnate, she is Nerevar reborn, and she is the only one who can defeat Dagoth Ur on Red Mountain and purge the Blight from Morrowind forever."

Adusamsi spoke with incredible conviction. They all were still silent, not knowing what else to say.

This Peakstar person sounded like a great hero. Was she really the Nerevarine?

"Did you meet her?" asked Zaryth. Nils smiled at her curiosity. Usually she would be making some comment about the Nerevarine being nothing but Ashlander superstition. Maybe she was just too tired to act haughty.

"My mind was not my own when she first arrived, and the soul sickness compelled me to do horrible things. I even attacked her. I could not control my actions, but I remember everything, and I am still ashamed. But she forgave me, and comforted me, saying that I no longer had to fear my own dreams."

Nils remembered too. When he had killed the ash ghoul in Rthalzeft, the innkeeper under its spell had awakened to his normal self.

Despite how exhausted he was, Nils had difficulty falling asleep that night, and was still laying awake after the others had gone to rest. He was mulling over a few things in his mind, vacillating between the events of the day and thinking far back about the time they encountered that ash ghoul in the darkness of Rthalzeft. Its hideous claws, its rattling voice, that proboscis jutting out from its face...

Peakstar was seeking out these ash creatures to fight. On her own accord. That by itself was deserving of admiration. Nils had not known terror until he had seen that... unliving creation that never should have been.  
He supposed that a hero was someone with the courage to want to fight them.

Nils was no hero. He had killed two unarmed people in Rotheran, in a sly and underhanded way. They were both very bad people, but he didn't even feel heroic about any of his actions that day.

He heard a rustling near him. When he turned he saw Zaryth walking out to the edge of the village to answer a call of nature. When she returned, Nils was sitting up. He realized he had not really had a chance to speak much with her since before she passed out.

"You feeling alright?" He kept his voice low, so as not to wake the others.

Zaryth scratched her head, pausing a bit before answering. "Yes, of course," she said dismissively. "I'm not in a magicka-deficient stupor anymore, so I'd say I'm feeling adequate."

"I meant to tell you that you did great in Rotheran."

It really was a fitting retribution. That the organizers of that slaughterhouse had been forced to brawl each other to the death. If he weren't feeling so weird about the situation he might have thought it hilarious.

"Huh? Oh. That was nothing. I mean, after _you_ wanted to be a hero and take the others with us, there was no other way."

Nils was smiling, though he didn't think she could see him in the dark. All the better; it'd probably make her even more flustered.

"That spell was incredible. You're the real hero of Rotheran," he said to her. It was true. He didn't feel heroic at all. All he had done was prove how underhanded and honorless he was. If, six years ago, before his imprisonment, his old self had seen him...

"Well... I'm not Peakstar," she said gruffly, curling up again and facing away from him.

And that was the end of the conversation. Nils did get a little sleep that night, but they left early to head towards Dagon Fel.

* * *

 **Dagon Fel.**

The only sizable settlement in the entire Sheogorad region was the fishing town of Dagon Fel, right on the northern tip of the main island. Nords from the West had settled here long before the Empire's conquest of Morrowind, and as such the overwhelming majority of Dagon Fel's population consisted of their ilk. It was a quiet little town, with thatched timberwork houses built in a distinctly Nordic style. Yet there was something very interesting about Dagon Fel besides all the Nords. Casting its shadow over all these modest cottages was a soaring Dwemer tower on the outskirts of town, just a single, detached tower, topped by its characteristic onion-shaped dome. In the distance, Nils saw yet another tower. They didn't appear to be inhabited and the townsfolk seemed to avert their eyes as they walked past them. Strange.

"Do you think that there may be a hidden ruin underneath Dagon Fel? Or... they may still be part of Mzuleft. You remember when we passed those, right?"

Nils nodded. He remembered, because she had about a thousand things to say about Mzuleft, and bemoaned the fact that they couldn't go and explore them right then. He hoped she didn't have any ideas of spelunking around before they could settle down and relax in the tavern. It was nearly dusk yet again, and Nils wondered if Keevan and the rest of the crew of the Nereid's Wrath were going to be able to wait for them much longer in Vos. They were two days behind schedule now, though they weren't supposed to be there for another day...

Nils squinted at a familiar-looking merchant ship at the docks. The figurehead on the prow depicted the head and bust of a feminine, serpentine mer, and though it was difficult to see in the distance, it looked like the one on Captain Lark's ship.

"Hey, does that look like the Nereid's Wrath to you?" he asked Zaryth.

She tilted her head. "I doubt it. That... tasteless figurehead is a common adornment of many East Empire Company ships of the past few decades and there must be over a thousand – _b'vek_ , you're right, that's J'zhirr."

Yes, he would recognize that orange tabby coat anywhere. Nils broke into a sprint towards his Khajiit friend. The Nereid's Wrath wasn't supposed to be here, but for some miraculous reason they must have decided to make a stop before they went back to Vos to wait for Nils and Zaryth. With this kind of unbelievable luck, the Divines surely must have been watching over him. Or Azura. Or both.

He and J'zhirr shared a quick and vigorous embrace.

"J'zhirr! I cannot even _begin_ to tell you how glad I am to see you."

* * *

 **Dagon Fel, the End of the World Tavern.**

It was around a table by the cozy hearth of the tavern that the group recounted their tales. Naturally J'zhirr was pleased to hear that they had put an end to the barbaric arena at Rotheran and freed so many people. By now, Adusamsi and Tanan had booked safe passage to Gnisis, but Sees-Through-Dusk still remained with the party. Nils wondered when Zaryth was going to ask him why he mentioned he was with the Blades, but he wasn't going to bring it up first in the event that she had forgotten already. His association with them was a bit complicated and he didn't know how to explain it himself.

He didn't have much choice in the matter of working with the clandestine Blades, but he also knew that no one was supposed to know about it, either. It was such a strange thing that Caius Cosades expected of him. Hopefully he'd be able to have that much-needed chat with Sees-Through-Dusk after the others had retired. They seemed to have some sort of silent agreement with their eyes, reminding one another that they had not forgotten with each fleeting glance.

The tavern was small, but lively, though with a notable absence of music. Nils took note of a lute propped up against a forgotten corner, collecting dust. He could tell by the well-worn wood that the instrument had been much loved and often played, at one point in time.

"We haven't heard any music in here lately," said their blond Nordic hostess as she took the empty bowls and tankards from their table. Had he really been staring at the lute for that long?

"Dusty thing hasn't been used since old Torleif went to Sovngarde. You're welcome to play something if you can."

Nils took the stringed instrument in his hands, plucking a few strings and then tuning it by ear. He did this very gently, for the strings had not been replaced in a long while and he didn't want them to snap. He seriously doubted there was a luthier in this town. It took him a few minutes until it was in tune, but after strumming some chords and getting a good feel of this lute, he was soon playing an upbeat melody, something that he vaguely remembered was part of a sentimental Breton ballad about a seamstress from Betony. A few people's heads turned just to see who was playing and some began to tap their feet to the rhythm, but most of the boisterous Nords in the tavern didn't even take notice.

Across from him, he saw Walde giving him a sort of half-smile. The burns on her face were not quite so visible in the soft orange candlelight.

"Why aren't you singing?" she asked.

"I don't really sing," he answered, glancing quickly at the positioning of his fingers on the neck before turning again to Walde, still playing. "Can't there be music with no words?"

"Not if you're a Nord," she said. "That's why no one's listening."

Nils didn't really care if no one was listening. It felt nice to play, to do something with his hands again.

When he finished the last refrain of the song, he held out the lute to Walde.

"Here. Why don't you give us a Nord song, then?"

"I don't play the strings."

"You mean the lute?"

"Yeah."

"But you can sing?"

Walde smiled again.

"Of course I can sing. I just don't know how to play the strings."

"Why don't you sing something and I'll play along?"

"I don't think you know any Nord songs."

"I can keep up fast enough."

Walde laughed and stood now, taking a long swig of her mead and slamming the mug back on the table. The drink sloshed dangerously but was thankfully contained inside the tankard.

"Alright!" she said, addressing the entire inn now, her voice becoming rich and room-filling. "Listen up. This here is the tale of Sigurd the Fearless."

When Walde began her narrative, Nils found it easy enough to play along. All he needed to do was play a few simple chords with each verse. Nord songs were mostly about the storytelling and improvising, and hardly about the music, so he was glad that the attention was on Walde instead of him.

" _Shadow-born and Scroll-marked was Sigurd the Fearless_

 _Of King Gunnar's thanes, he was strongest and fiercest_

 _Loved Gunnar's daughter Grimhilde, whose beauty was peerless_

 _But how could a Thane hope to marry a princess?_

 _/_

 _"In the mead-hall King Gunnar did hear of his Thane's secret devotion_

 _They put down their drinking horns, crafted devious a solution:_

 _The mighty shield-maiden Brünhilde had the King's attention_

 _Yet she'd already sworn, "He who cannot best me in combat deserves my rejection!"_

 _/_

 _"Gunnar sent Thane Sigurd to a dragon's lair in the Pale_

 _His sword pierced the wyrm's heart, it fell dead with a wail_

 _Sigurd drank its power, his skin hardened like shale_

 _So foretold the Elder Scroll: No man could wound him; he would not fail!_

 _/_

 _"The King's procession met Brünhilde within a fortnight_

 _Gunnar asked for her hand, she demanded his might_

 _She fought honor-strong, but was defeated by midnight._

 _None knew of Sigurd fighting unseen, shadow-cloaked under starlight._

 _/_

 _"And so the two were joined, and Grimhilde promised to the Thane_

 _There was much celebration; none knew Gunnar's victory he did feign!_

 _Yet there was something odd about Sigurd's marriage, thought Brünhilde with disdain:_

 _How did this common vassal earn the hand of Grimhilde, the princess-reign?_

 _/_

 _"So Brünhilde met with the princess as their husbands were feasting_

 _In the mead hall they overheard the men recount their trickery, boasting!_

 _Brünhilde and Grimhilde were enraged at their cheating!_

 _They vowed that dark night that an honor-duel would be occurring!_

 _/_

 _"And so in the palace courtyard steel sang yet again_

 _King Gunnar was slain, Sigurd wounded, near the end of his lifespan!_

" _Was the prophecy a lie?" said he to his wife "I should be harmed not by Man!"_

 _Love-torn he could not strike Grimhilde; Sigurd was ended by woman!_

 _/_

 _"On that day Brünhilde claimed in fair combat the jagged crown_

 _Grimhilde her queen in a bloodstained gown_

 _They ruled with a cruel fist until a dragon came 'round_

 _Ended the reign of the Ice Queens when he burned their palace down!"_

Nils never would have guessed that Walde was such a great performer. The song was entertaining and her voice clear and engaging, not to mention rather pleasant to the ears. The other patrons were standing and cheering and raising their tankards to her. Well, this was an enthusiastic contrast to the lukewarm reaction to his lute solo from before. Walde had to reciprocate several slaps on the back and punches on the shoulder before she returned to her spot at the table.

Nils knew now what she meant by Nord music. He actually enjoyed that.

"Well, that was entertaining. I thought the ending was a bit too abrupt, but I suppose one can't expect high art from a Nord drinking song, after all." Of course, Zaryth had to say something like that.

"Maybe next time I'll write a song about the snotty Telvanni mage who didn't know how to make friends, because every time she tried to give a compliment she ended up insulting people," responded Walde coolly.

"Hmph. You westerners put too much value in trivial matters like _friendship._ With my studies I have little time for such indulgences; I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Oh. I thought you'd realize that you've got me, Nils, J'zhirr, the Captain, _maaaaybe_ in due time even that quiet dark elf priestess lady and that quiet dark elf fellow from the plantation, but this is fine too. I hope you and your studies are happy together."

The only person getting burned here was Zaryth. Damn. That was harsh.

The mage glowered at Walde. "You're not funny."

"J'zhirr thought it was funny," purred the Khajiit.

Zaryth was about to say something else, but two overflowing tankards of mead were set in front of Walde and Nils. They had really filled it to the brim this time, with froth dripping down the sides.

"On the house, compliments of Sornir," said the plump Nord woman who served them.

Nils thanked the hostess properly and took a long sip of his first drink that he had not yet finished. He had never fancied himself a proper bard like his grandparents, though he could not deny the benefits to being able to play music in front of a crowd.

"I still can't believe you all took on Rotheran by yourselves," said Keevan incredulously. He was leaning dangerously far back in his chair.

J'zhirr leaned close to Nils' ear. He was still idly strumming chords on the lute.

"Between you and J'zhirr, it was the Captain's idea to set sail to Dagon Fel, and it had nothing to do with a potential client. We had second thoughts about letting you go on your suicide run – "

"J'zhirr, what nonsense are you filling his head with?" warned the Redguard, his chair snapping upright again.

"Nothing, nothing. This one was only observing that Nord women are prettier than Imperial women, but not as pretty as Breton women."

"Truly. I'm flattered," said Walde in a deadpan voice.

"No. J'zhirr has seen many beautiful people. But Walde is the most beautiful of them all."

This was said without J'zhirr's usual cloying sarcasm. And yes, for anyone who could get past the fact that half of her face was burned and she had a glass eye, Walde was actually rather pretty. But Nils figured J'zhirr was speaking more about her personality.

Yes, he himself had initially thought the Nord brusque and unfriendly, but after spending all this time Nils had found Walde to be enjoyable company. Even with all her bluntness – and occasional tactlessness.

Walde scoffed at him and took another swig of her drink. She didn't seem the type of person to care what anyone thought of her _looks._ But Nils couldn't help but notice her occasionally turning her good eye towards the Khajiit, in an odd manner that Nils hadn't seen her do before. It was as if she were suddenly thinking of J'zhirr in a different way, and it was interesting to watch.

He looked down at the sweet, golden beverage inside his mug. Maybe it was just the mead toying with the romantic part of his imagination.

"Hey."

Nils looked up at Walde, who was addressing him again.

"You up for another song? My mug's almost empty."

Nils brought his _first_ tankard to his lips and drank the last of it, feeling the warm tingling of the mead inside of his belly. He nodded, running his fingers over the strings of the lute yet again. This was going to be a long night.


	20. The Empire's Best Interests

**Dagon Fel, the End of the World Renter Rooms.**

Nils woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and two slitted yellow eyes staring straight into his.

He threw the sheets off and sat up.

"Wha- when did you – I thought the door was locked!"

"It was," Sees-Through-Dusk answered simply, as if his intrusion warranted no other explanation.

"There's this polite thing we do in the Empire, you know. It's called knocking," grumbled Nils. He felt a little nauseous. That had been a bit too much mead for him last night. He rubbed his eyes.

Sees-Through-Dusk threw open the shutters. Though it was just after sunrise, the sunlight was blinding, and Nils was tempted to dive back under the bed covers. He mumbled a curse.

The Argonian poured a glass of water from the pitcher and handed it to him. Nils drank half of it immediately, then paced himself as he drank the rest. At least the breezy air coming through the windows was beginning to clear his head. It was a bit chilly, being so far up north and all, and he set the glass on the nightstand and fumbled around until he found his shirt.

He was mostly surprised at how well Sees-Through-Dusk was holding up. He drank even more than Nils did the night before. But here he was, spry as ever.

"You seem rather active today. Especially after last night," Nils said, wording it carefully without having to admit how terrible he felt.

Sees-Through-Dusk had an amused expression on his face. Or, that was what it seemed. Argonian facial features were sometimes difficult for Nils to interpret.

"My body is not affected by toxins like yours. It is a natural immunity that Argonians have, to help us survive in Black Marsh."

"It helps you survive in Nordic taverns too, it looks like."

Nils poured himself some more water. He was glad that Sees-Through-Dusk was here. It meant they could begin their much anticipated conversation.

He went over his entire story from the beginning, not even realizing how wild his journey had been thus far until he began to talk about it. His life really had become exciting since his arrival in Morrowind. He didn't know if this was a good thing or not.

First, he was whisked out of his prison cell in the Imperial City and brought to Seyda Neen with nothing but some dirty clothes on his back and a coded package for a man named Caius Cosades in Balmora. Almost immediately upon arriving in Balmora, Caius declared that Nils was now taking orders from the Blades, and with no further explanation told him to speak with an informant in Suran. By then, of course, Sees-Through-Dusk had already been kidnapped. Nils told him how he asked around at the slave markets in Sadrith Mora and Tel Aruhn to no avail, until he had a vision from Azura that told him to follow the symbol on the coin. It led him to a Dwemer ruin, which contained a book written in Dwemeris, which he took to the ancient wizard Divayth Fyr to have translated by the last living Dwemer. But first Divayth gave him a task, which was to fetch the Indoranyon Propylon Index from the rogue Telvanni that had set up shop in Rotheran. Sees-Through-Dusk knew the rest.

"And," concluded Nils. "After all of that, now I'm sitting here with you, waiting for you to explain to me what my purpose here is in the first place."

Sees-Through-Dusk had remained silent throughout Nils' entire tale, but now he made a breathy, hissing noise that sounded like laughter.

"You say you had a vision from Azura? You don't have to take your role _that_ seriously, but Caius must appreciate it."

"I'm not certain I understand..."

"You know of the Nerevarine prophecies?"

"Only bits and pieces. I've picked up that the Nerevarine is the reincarnation of some famous hero from the First Era, who's supposed to... unite the Dunmer Houses and end the Blight, or something like that."

"There are others who are more knowledgeable than I on Nerevar Indoril and the Nerevarine. Perhaps Caius will have you speak with them next. I was the one who was present when Emperor Uriel Septim selected you out of hundreds of prisoners. Said he saw your face in a vision. He has the gift of far sight, though he sometimes calls it a curse. He said that you were the one."

"I don't remember any of this," Nils said.

"His Majesty was not wearing his regal attire. You probably did not even notice us walking by your cell."

"But what was I selected for?" Nils was beginning to have an awful feeling about this. Did the Empire want him to go around claiming to be the Nerevarine? That was one way to get killed by the Temple Ordinators. Zaryth had all of her fingers broken just for talking back to them. He didn't want to think about what they'd to to someone they actually viewed as a threat.

"Whether or not you are the Nerevarine is up for debate. The Emperor only later learned of the Nerevarine prophecy from one on the Elder Council, and decided that you fit a lot of the criteria. But the Empire's presence in Morrowind is threatened regardless. A secret cult has risen. Started targeting prominent Imperial figures and their allies on Vvardenfell. We don't know much, but they call themselves the 'Sixth House.' We came into contact with one cultist who claimed they were on a mission to drive the depraved Western scum from Morrowind. If this is their final plan, the Empire has a lot at stake."

Nils already knew a little about that 'cult.' He took it from there.

"That sounds like a Sleeper. I happened upon one in Tel Aruhn."

"Ahh. This is useful. What else do you know about them?"

"Not much," he admitted. "I didn't know they were a cult. I know that certain people – I'm not sure how they're targeted – certain people start having disturbing dreams, which eventually change them. They're still people inside, but they're not in control of their own free will. They call themselves 'Sleepers' and talk about how they serve Dagoth Ur and the Sixth House. That was what was happening to the innkeeper in Tel Aruhn. But I went to some Dwemer ruins nearby and killed an ash ghoul, and the Sleeper woke up. Remember when Adusamsi was talking about what happened in Maar Gan? And how the spell was broken after Peakstar killed an ash creature? I think that was the same."

"Mmm. It would appear to be. That is impressive. Admittedly, I have yet to see one of these ash creatures."

"They're... abominations. You're better off not seeing them. But tell me more about what the Empire wants with me. Or what the Empire thinks I'm _capable_ of doing. Or... actually, why _me?_ You know exactly who I was before all of this. I was just a city guard in Cheydinhal. Then I was accused of murdering my father and spent six years in prison. Why was I selected?"

"This is a long story. But I remember things very well. The Emperor studied your files extensively, and came to understand that evidence strongly suggests you were framed and subjected to a mistrial six years ago."

Nils felt this odd combination of relief and frustration. It felt like a massive burden had been taken off of his shoulders. Though there was nothing that could allow him to go back and reclaim those six dark years wasted in prison, this was some consolation all the same. His innocence was finally recognized. With that knowledge being known it was annoying to be used as some puppet, doing whatever the Blades wanted of him, but at least it got rid of some of the tightness in his chest whenever he saw an Imperial fort.

This was far better than prison, he realized, and that assuaged some of his indignation.

Sees-Through-Dusk continued.

"You were betrayed by your own comrades, much like Lord Nerevar himself, so the Ashlanders would claim. The Nerevarine would be born on a certain day – the second day of Evening Star - under the sign of the Serpent, to uncertain parents –"

"Hold on," interrupted Nils. "There's nothing _uncertain_ about my parentage. I knew my mother and father."

"Did you? The Emperor studied the marriage records, and it appears you were born about a year before they were wed."

"That doesn't mean anything and you know it," Nils said, getting a bit more defensive than he would have liked. He had not been aware of this bit of information, but did it even matter? Why would he bring that up?

"Let me see how much I remember. I helped the Emperor with ahh - _acquiring_ these records. According to the Census and Excise office, your mother, Reletha Imaren, formerly of the minor House Sadras, was processed in the month of First Seed, 3E 396. She settled in Cheydinhal and about nine months later gave birth to a son, you, with your date of birth recorded by the healers at the Chapel and no father named. Now, as for the man you know as your father... Darian Valericus, a legionnaire at the time, was not posted in Cheydinhal until Hearthfire that year, which would have been several months after you were supposedly conceived. It is highly unlikely they met before then."

Nils was disturbed at the thought of the Emperor delving so deep into his family's records. Sees-Through-Dusk, someone he hadn't known until a few days ago, apparently knew more about his parentage than he did.

"It still doesn't mean he's not my father," he said. He wasn't sure if he wanted to accept the possibility that he wasn't. He was the one who had raised him, and to him he was his only father. If there were some other father that Nils did not know about, he didn't want to hear it.

"It means there is uncertainty, which is enough to fulfill that part of the prophecy. That is why I bring this up, but it appears you do not wish to speak of it any longer so we shall speak of something else. What the Emperor believes you capable of... well, it is rather hard even for me to believe, but I will trust his judgment. He believes you are the one to unite the settled dark elf Houses with the Ashlander clans and defeat Dagoth Ur whose master plan appears to be to drive all foreigners out of Morrowind. We are hoping this will strengthen Morrowind's support in the Empire in the process."

Of course. Forget about the thousands of people dying from the Blight; the Empire's hold on Morrowind was at stake.

Nils didn't know how to feel about all of this. His emotions had numbed from this conversation. He didn't even want to address the thing about his father. As for the rest, it was just too outlandish to be true. Were Azura and the Emperor in league or something? Playing some elaborate, convoluted joke? There was also the matter of the other Nerevarine...

"And... what about Peakstar? What if she is the true Nerevarine? She'd probably be better at this than me."

"Peakstar is an enigmatic character. We have been trying to make contact to learn more of her motives, but despite widespread reports of her heroic deeds, the Blades' attempts to locate her have failed. We doubt she is willing to cooperate with the Empire, and she may become an enemy."

"But she's done nothing wrong," Nils protested. Peakstar seemed like a good person. Obviously he didn't know her well enough to make that call, but it still seemed unfair that not only was she was being persecuted by the Temple, the Empire viewed her as a potential threat.

"Not yet. But let us not speak of this either. That is an issue that has not yet arisen. Let us speak of the present. The Empire sees that the dark elves have never truly been our allies. Despite the Legion's attempts to improve their way of living, they are bitter about what they perceive as a Western conquest and exploitation of their lands. The Emperor and his councilors believe that a hero who understands the interests of both the Empire and the native elves can ease some of this tension. Be mindful about the things I have said, and do not repeat them. I am not meant to tell you all of this information, not yet. But I tell you anyways, because I see you as a person to respect. You did something noble back there in Rotheran with little concern for your own safety, and to keep you in the dark as the other Blades intend would be dishonorable."

He understood it was a good thing that Sees-Through-Dusk was telling him so much information, but his headache was getting even worse from all of this. And... if even the Emperor knew he was innocent, why was he still being treated as the property of the Empire? Yes, yes, he knew they could just as easily toss him back into prison, but he still felt all of this was being done in such a scheming, dishonest way. He had just been told that he was here to take advantage of an ancient Dunmeri belief still held sacred, just because the Empire wanted to be able to keep telling the Dunmer what to do.

"When will I be allowed to return to Cyrodiil and see my family? My mother, my sister Iluna... no one's told me anything. I just want to know that they're alright."

"After we return to Caius Cosades in Balmora with our reports, I will travel to Cheydinhal and see them. If they are struggling, we can offer financial support, of course. It is only fair. I will make certain of this, for you have done a great thing for me, and I shall repay your kindness in turn."

"What are you going to tell them about me?"

"That you have been sent to a penal colony in Morrowind. An ebony mine. Soon enough they may discover the truth. It is safer for everyone that they do not know for now."

All of that talk about Cheydinhal made those cherished memories of home return. Dwelling on it too long made him sad, but it had been such a carefree, happy life. Soon, he may be allowed to return. Nils closed his eyes, imagining what it would be like to see his family again. That lovely house in Cheydinhal... he remembered it so well. It was just across from the Mages Guild, with a willow tree in the yard. He remembered the timber-framed gables, the bay window on the second floor, the high ceilings... what if he could just walk inside right now? His mother would embrace him for a moment before pulling away with a scowl to comment on how much weight he had lost, and then make preparations for some big wonderful supper while chastising him for not taking care of himself. His sister would be overjoyed to see him and go over all the silly gossip he had missed: who was getting married, who the Count and Countess reportedly snubbed at the weekly party in Riverview Manor, and of course what was new with the Guild she was always hanging around. After going through her nonsensical Dark Brotherhood phase, she decided that she wanted to fight bad people like that, and so she looked up to the Fighters Guild in admiration. Iluna was probably a member by now. Or even a full-fledged mercenary. He had been away for a long time. He had missed so much... all these times he could have been there, as if losing their father wasn't already hard enough on them. Did they have to sell the house? Did his mother convert it into an inn like he thought she might? Was his sister married by now? Divines, that was a horrifying thought, if he couldn't be there for that.

Nils felt the stinging feeling of tears threatening to surface, but he swallowed the lump in his throat and took another sip of water.

"I will see them," reassured Sees-Through-Dusk. "I will see them and tell you everything."

Nils didn't know if he could speak without getting choked up, so he only nodded. Some hero he was, getting teary-eyed because he couldn't see his family. Hopefully they were doing fine.

There was a long pause. Sees-Through-Dusk looked like he was getting ready to leave.

"Can I write a letter? Something for you to give to them." Nils asked suddenly.

Sees-Through-Dusk scratched his chin.

"Mmm. I suppose. So long as you don't include anything we talked about."

"I know. I don't even want them to know all that. It'd probably scare them. I just want them to know that I love them, and I miss them a lot."

"You'll have a lot of time for that on the way to Balmora. Come, they're serving breakfast downstairs. The Nords have good food here."

Ordinarily Nils would have been overjoyed at the opportunity to eat something that wasn't once part of some giant insect, but he only said he'd be there in a moment. He just needed some time alone. There were so many things swirling around his throbbing head... the Empire, Dagoth Ur, the Nerevarine... it was madness, all of it.

Once Sees-Through-Dusk left he washed his face in the basin, woefully catching a glimpse of his growing stubble in the mirror. Was this the face of the Nerevarine?

Honestly, the Nerevarine looked like shit.

Or maybe just a bit unkempt. Tired-looking. He splashed his face once more. The cool water felt refreshing against his skin and he found himself rubbing his temples with his fingers. Dagoth Ur must be trembling in fear. The hero that the Empire sent was suffering from a hangover and bemoaning the fact that he hadn't shaved in weeks.

It did make him look somewhat rugged, and it wasn't altogether unseemly on him, but Nils was so used to shaving regularly that he found this bothersome. He scratched his chin, thinking of Divayth Fyr's handsome bit of scruffiness that seemed to come with being an old wizard. Nils was not four thousand years old and he had no such excuse.

But at least that could wait until after breakfast.


	21. Tel Fyr After Hours

**Tel Fyr.**

It was nighttime when Zaryth returned, unescorted, to the tower of Tel Fyr. She strode along the spongy hypha-bridges, her path illuminated by the soft blue glow from magical lanterns. The waters below were dark and still, with an occasional gurgle below from a slaughterfish, as if it were waiting for her to fall in. She took a deep inhale, the thick scent of spores and salty sea wind rushing through her nose. Tel Fyr was, first and foremost, her place of work and study. But it was also the closest thing to a home she ever really had.

For whatever inconceivably stupid reason, Nils declined to accompany her to the tower, claiming that he didn't need to know what was in the Dwemer book anymore. What an uninspired adventurer he was!

Obviously there must be some going-ons of a subversive nature to explain his sudden change in behavior, but Zaryth wasn't about to shove her nose into it. It simply did not interest her. She had not forgotten how Nils plainly mentioned to Sees-Through-Dusk that he was a Blade. Likely a slip of the tongue. This was either another one of his lies or the Empire had resorted to recruiting this incompetent excuse for a spy. but Zaryth never brought it up, and neither did he. It was ridiculous. At the inn Nils and that Argonian would not stop giving each other these looks, like dopey schoolchildren with a secret infatuation.

The Blades, as she understood it, were the Emperor's eyes and ears. She knew they had a presence in Morrowind, and there were whispers that they had operatives in every city, but Zaryth was certainly not impressed. Clearly they were not as clandestine as they were portrayed. They seemed downright sloppy. Perhaps one of them would find her in some dark night and try to slit her throat for knowing the names of two of their operatives. What a tragedy that would be. For them.

Whatever all of that was about, Zaryth could not bring herself to care. If they no longer needed her knowledge or expertise, then why would they need her to accompany them? Unless the Blades were investigating the underground trading of Dwemer artifacts, she couldn't think of anything they would need her services for. She wasn't too keen on performing acts of espionage against her own people, even if she didn't like most of them. Zaryth was more grateful than ever that House Telvanni managed to isolate themselves from the bizarre stage-play that was Morrowind's political situation. It was better this way.

 **Tel Fyr, Onyx Hall.**

The Onyx Hall was completely dark when Zaryth entered. That was a bit odd. Divayth Fyr had come into the habit of spending his evenings in a cozy alcove of cushions and blankets he created for himself, relaxing with a bittergreen tonic and a book. Provided Alfe or Beyte did not bring up matters to occupy Divayth Fyr's attention, it was during these quiet hours of the night that Zaryth enjoyed conversing with him the most, when their roles as master and apprentice were put aside and they could simply discuss any topic they wanted. And, as she was in an unusually melancholy mood tonight for reasons which she could not discern, she would have appreciated his insight.

Zaryth was about to investigate the rest of Tel Fyr to see if she could locate him, but as she stood there in the dark she heard a faint, raspy breathing sound. Zaryth couldn't help but smile fondly. Had the illustrious Divayth Fyr fallen asleep in his little nook again?

Not wanting to wake him with the harsh fluorescence of a Light spell, Zaryth held up one hand. One by one tiny flames lit up on every candle in the room, illuminating the rotund chamber with the soft, warm glow.

She felt a sharpness in her chest.

There _was_ someone in the room.

It was definitely _not_ Divayth Fyr.

A disfigured creature that once resembled a Dunmer woman was crouched on the floor in the middle of the room. Zaryth was surprised she had not caught a whiff of the distinct smell of necrosis until now, but perhaps after spending so much time studying the malodorous patients in the Corprusarium it was something she had gotten used to. Her face was a swollen, blotchy mass but Zaryth recognized her as Tanusea Veloth by the undyed linen dress she wore. The healer from the Temple that had been brought here a few weeks ago and granted lodging in a room somewhere down the hall. Divayth found her notable by virtue of being a carrier of Corprus without visible manifestation of any of the advanced symptoms. At least, not until now.

Zaryth frowned, not because she was disgusted by the grotesque sight, but because Divayth would be disappointed to hear of this. Still, she knew it was time for her to be moved to the Corprusarium below.

This meant that Zaryth's mindset had to shift to the same clinical detachment she felt when working with the other victims. As pitiful as they were, she could not show compassion to these creatures without putting herself at risk. Uupse Fyr had mastered the art of soothing the victims into a prolonged nonaggressive state, but Zaryth preferred not to die tonight and thus she was not about to attempt this.

The first thing she did was cast a spell on herself to increase her resistance to disease. She had of course learned while studying under Master Fyr that Corprus was not transmitted by any known conventional means, but she did not want to get some kind of infection from accidental contact with its weeping pustules.

The Corprus monster that had once been Tanusea jolted up at the sound and stalked towards Zaryth. She was quick enough to cast a brief Calm spell to prevent it from attacking, but it was woefully temporary.

The creature fell back to a crouch, clutching its head and rocking itself back and forth.

"I am preserved. He has given me the sacred flesh." These words it repeated over and over like an incantation.

The calming effect only lasted about ten seconds before it got up again. Zaryth stood at the circular entryway into the tunnels, goading it into chasing her. Despite their... lack of intellect and constant state of agony, she knew all too well that corprus beasts were not to be underestimated, for they were just as fast and twice as strong as she was. She turned her back on it and broke into a sprint down the coiling tunnels, down, down, down until she reached the old bronze door leading to the cavernous Corprusarium. Breathless, she heard the thing shuffling effortlessly behind her. She heaved open the heavy door with just enough time to vanish into Invisibility as the creature came into view, stalking after her. It went straight through the door, stopping once inside the damp subterranean cave. On the other side, Zaryth shut the door with an abrupt burst of Telekinesis, securing the corprus monster inside as she cast a bit of Alteration magic to set the lock at a comfortable distance. Not a moment after she heard the clicking of tumblers into place, the creature began to bang violently on the thick slab of metal that separated Tel Fyr from the Corprusarium.

"Try to get past _that_ ," she called after it between pants, clutching the stitch in her side as she leaned against the wall, slowly sinking to the squishy mushroom floor. Well. Zaryth had never been the fastest runner, but she really pushed her limits with that exhausting chase through Tel Fyr. She had enough magicka left for a minor restoration spell, and she closed her eyes with relief as her muscles loosened their fatigue while her stamina recovered.

Upon meandering back up to the Onyx Hall at a leisurely pace, Zaryth pondered what she would do with her evening. She considered asking Delte or someone where Divayth had disappeared to, but the others had likely gone to bed by now. And honestly, she didn't really feel like speaking to any of the daughters right now. They got on her nerves most of the time.

As she entered the atrium of the Onyx Hall she yet again saw another shrouded figure in the dim candlelight. Her blood went cold. She couldn't see much, save for the distinct spikes and ridges of Daedric armor.

The flickering candlelight combined with the natural contours of the mushroom wall made its shadow particularly jagged and horrible.

A Dremora? For just a moment she was about to shout to Alfe to keep her summons under control, but then she was able to take a deep, relieved breath when she realized it was Divayth Fyr in his full regalia.

She sniffed. The room smelled of sulfur and bloodgrass.

"Deadlands again?" Zaryth asked, approaching him tentatively. He was still wearing some hideous mask, a contraption with four dark eye-slits and what looked like iron shaped to resemble rib bones protruding out from each side. He said the Daedra called it the "Face of Terror." The name was quite fitting. He didn't even look like a person when he wore that. Ever since he'd started to wear that mask a few months ago for his ventures into the Deadlands, Zaryth would always laugh at it for how ridiculously impractical it was. Now... it was just unsettling.

"Unfortunately. I will need to return later, to maintain a discreet eye on Dagon's machinations," came the muffled reply. He began to remove his gauntlets, setting a black spherical object on the table. Either he didn't notice or care when the ball began to roll dangerously close to the edge of the table but Zaryth sprung forward to catch it before it fell off. It was warm and oscillating, having a faint sort of pulse to it. It was small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. With her fingernail she could feel the indentations where Daedric letters were carved, but it was far too dark to read any of the runes.

"Is this a sigil stone?" she asked, not bothering to conceal her excitement. He always brought back so many interesting things when he ventured into Oblivion. Divayth proceeded to remove his helm, eliciting in Zaryth a sigh of relief when she saw his wizened face again. She wondered if her reaction to the mask had something to do with a recent encounter with two other masked people...

Zaryth gave a slight shiver. Some memories were best left buried. This was one of them.

"It is. You can keep it if you'd like. I have no use for it," he answered, waving his hand dismissively. Zaryth did want it and she did keep it, slipping it into one of the wide pockets of her robe. She could feel it pulsating warmly against her leg.

Divayth Fyr began to fumble with the straps on his right pauldron. Zaryth moved in to help, being mindful of the hazardous spikes. Just by his stiff, almost hesitant-looking movements Zaryth could see he carried himself with a particular level of exhaustion, one that she recognized whenever he ventured into Oblivion for days at a time and used fatigue potions as an alternative to sleep.

"I still have not uncovered the finer details of his plan, but I know that sigil stones are being produced in mass quantities."  
"That's a frightening thought. Does... each sigil stone mean a portal to Oblivion opening up on Mundus?" asked Zaryth, helping him now with the cuirass. Even the buckles were decorated with unnecessary iron studs and some elaborate clawed clasping mechanism. The Daedra even wanted to make the act of putting armor on and off a painful task. Divayth seemed grateful for the help, and she felt him letting out a long exhale. "Though they can't do much with sigil stones alone, can't they? The portals only last for minutes, if that. There's protections on Mundus in place for that specific purpose," Zaryth added to her previous thought, still trying to remain hopeful.

"Unless they've found out a way to stabilize a liminal bridge. I aim to stop whatever their plans are, before it's too late. Either that or figure out a way to send them all to the Void, permanently. Whichever I figure out first. I'm beginning to suspect that the Daedra are not alone in their endeavors, and that Dagon has been spreading his influence to mortals foolish enough to join his cause."

Zaryth sighed. As if they didn't have Dagoth Ur and the Blight monsters from Red Mountain to worry about already. She knelt down to carefully help remove his greaves, but her palm caught on the sharp edge. It hurt. Zaryth retracted her hand immediately, wincing at the cut. Alright, she was bleeding now. For some sadistic reason the spikes on the armor were razor sharp, and lacerated her hand fairly bad. But before she could begin to cast a healing spell, Divayth Fyr barely raised one hand and a shimmering blue light surrounded her wound, sealing it seamlessly.

"I could have healed that myself. I'm not some mundane, you know," Zaryth grumbled, working on the other side now. Divayth said nothing in response. Zaryth motioned for him to sit down so that she could help with his sabatons. He rubbed his face with his hands and then went back to watching her, probably just to make sure she didn't hurt herself again from this ridiculous armor. Unquestionably, he was the most powerful person she knew, and if he desired it he could spring back up to his feet and spend even more time in Oblivion. Which reminded her... she had forgotten to ask something.

"How long were you in there?"  
"What day is it?"

Oh, for crying out loud...

"Fredas. Unless midnight has already passed –"  
"It has," he said, glancing briefly at the positioning of two moons that could be seen out the small porthole-shaped window. "Loredas, then. Since I was just preparing to leave when you and your friend arrived, and that was on Sundas... Hm. What a lovely way to spend a week."

Zaryth's jaw dropped.

"Master Fyr... we were at your tower _last_ Sundas. I only just returned tonight. You've... been in Oblivion for almost two weeks."

It was getting harder for Divayth Fyr to surprise her with his antics, but this was unbelievable. How was he even still alive, talking to her, and not a puddle of primordial ooze on the floor?

"Hm. Fancy that. No wonder I can't feel my legs. Ah, by the way, Zaryth, would you mind fixing up some bittergreen tonic? If it's not too much trouble, of course."  
Ordinarily she may have made some wry remark about how she wasn't his servant, and he ought to hire one if he was going to continue to treat her as such, but no words were coming out of her mouth. This was incomprehensible. Two weeks. Among the Daedra. Without rest. _How?_

"Oh, speaking of... erm, what's-his-name – " he continued idly.

"Nils."

"Yes, that one. Is he here with you? We can see if Yagrum is done with the book. I can have my drink later if you want us to go to the Corprusarium first."

Zaryth paused.

"I'll make the tonic for you."

She turned abruptly and disappeared through another corridor in the atrium. Visitors to Tel Fyr could spend days getting lost just trying to find the kitchen amidst the myriad tunnels and passageways, but Zaryth knew the layout so well that she could walk around blind.

The kitchen was usually Beyte's domain, but she kept all of her utensils neatly organized and always ready for use. Zaryth crushed bittergreen petals with a mortar and pestle, still wondering how Divayth had managed to accomplish this feat. The vast majority of mortals, herself included, likely wouldn't be able to spend more than two hours in the Deadlands. Divayth Fyr had just spent two _weeks._ There was no such thing as resting in the Deadlands, either. Not with the infinite hordes of bloodthirsty Daedra crawling around everywhere.

When she was finished mixing the tonic, she began to wonder what the old wizard managed to find for food in the Deadlands. Hah. That was laughable. Most of the plants there were poisonous, and the ones that weren't would whip and strangle any passing by. Maybe it was one of those things that came with being a four thousand year old wizard, but Divayth simply couldn't be bothered with trifles such as remembering to eat every so often. She grumbled to herself and used her magicka to light a fire in the stove, placing upon the heat a pot of water. Maybe he just used this as an excuse to get everyone else to cook for him. It truly was a tedious task. Reaching into a basket Zaryth lifted a large kwama egg with two hands and dropped it in the pot. It was almost too big for the pot and the water splashed around on all sides. The enormous eggs of the kwama made for a filling and nutritious meal, but she wasn't thinking about any of that; the eggs were simple and quick enough to prepare. She wondered how many thousands of hours of a person's life were wasted simply by going through something as mundane as food preparation. Zaryth had so many more important things to do with her time, and she simply could not wait until she was as aged and respected as Divayth Fyr, just so that others would cook for her.

As Zaryth pondered the other menial tasks she would be able to relegate to apprentices when she was older and wiser, she realized that the egg ought to be done simmering by now. With frost magic she chilled the water in the pot and scooped the egg it into a bowl, though only part of it fit in the bowl with most of it protruding out. She walked back through the tunnels as fast as she could while balancing a boiled kwama egg and a cold drink on her tray.

This felt close to mortifying. What was she, his housewife? He had others to do this for him, and he could very well take care of himself, why did she even care?

Back in the atrium, Zaryth found that Divayth had already made himself comfortable in his favorite alcove, sitting with his legs outstretched and his back against the wall. It was nice to see him in ordinary clothes, now that all the armor was off, just a simple black tunic and trousers. He had a slight build, though not in a way that implied he was fragile. When she first met him, she had been surprised at how gaunt and angular he was, but the child she was imagined his bones must have been made of ebony because he commanded such a powerful presence. He didn't even look a day over sixty, despite his being ancient by any definition of that word. When Zaryth entered, she found him with his eyes closed, massaging his temples with his hands. But when he heard her footsteps, he stopped this, turning his head to smile at her.

"There you are. I had feared you'd stumbled over something in the dark. Was about to go searching for you, hah."

Zaryth sat down in his alcove, setting the tray on a cushion between them. Divayth's eyebrows rose as soon as he saw the kwama egg. It was like he didn't expect her to go out of her way to do something nice.  
Though, Zaryth was a bit surprised at herself too. This was only a special exception. He had spent two weeks in Oblivion without rest, after all.

" _You_ prepared this for me? You are most thoughtful, Zaryth. Have I mentioned that you are my favorite apprentice?"

He picked up the spoon and began to crack at the outer shell.

"I'm your _only_ apprentice, Master Fyr."

Divayth put down the spoon a moment.

"Hmm. Yes. You are right. Pity about old Garalo, hm?"

"It's been almost seven years since he left."

"And two years ago it would have been five years. What I'm trying to say is... I'm not really sure, actually. Something about time being this subjective thing constructed by our flawed mortal perception of its linear passage. Fill in the blanks."

"You're tired."

"I... well, I might say that fatigue is yet another mortal limitation... and... I also live in a mushroom tower that predates the formation of Zafirbel Bay itself... oh! On an unrelated note I am lucky to have such a wonderfully compassionate apprentice named Zaryth Velani. What I am saying is you do not need to state the obvious."

"Eat your egg." Zaryth made a gesture towards the spoon he had put down.

"Yes, muthsera. If it pleases you."

Zaryth smiled. Sometimes she stopped to think about how strange it was that she could have this sort of banter with a four thousand year old wizard. But then it didn't seem strange anymore when she remembered that he was Divayth Fyr.

"So," he began, after swallowing a bite of egg. "Did you find – oh, Zaryth, of all the kwama eggs I have eaten I can truly say this is one of the most delicious. Mm. You should cook for me more often."

"I wouldn't count on it."

She didn't get it. It was just a kwama egg, like the hundreds of thousands of others in the thousands of egg mines across Morrowind. But he was savoring it as if it would be his last meal on Mundus. He was probably just very hungry.

"So, did you find the Rotheran index?"  
"Indoranyon," she corrected. "And yes."

There was silence. Divayth continued to chew, but he was looking thoughtfully at Zaryth. When he swallowed, he spoke again.

"What, no tales of your journey? Not going to regale me with one of your usual exciting anecdotes? You know I always like to hear you talk of these things. My days of carefree adventuring are long over but an old wizard can be satisfied just by living vicariously, eh?"

Well. Zaryth was sorry to disappoint. She wanted to tell him to just eat his damn egg and go to sleep or something, but perhaps it was a bit unusual for her to act like this. Any other time she would be giving him a very detailed explanation of what had transpired. But she simply could not find the feeling for it. She clenched her hands into fists and then unclenched them.  
There was no easy way for her to bury that memory deep inside her, like she seemed to be able to do for most unpleasant things. This was different. Every time she heard a twig snap underfoot or someone cracking their knuckles, she winced.

"I think you ought to get some rest instead. You're exhausted."

Divayth's mouth was full of kwama egg and there was a pause before he could speak again.

"Zaryth," he started. His voice was firm. "I can rest whenever I'd like. Right now, I would much prefer to listen to you."

After a beat, Zaryth spoke.

"I forgot to tell you. I found Tanusea Veloth earlier. Uhh, she wasn't doing too well. It looked as if she skipped stage two and went straight to stage three. I had to bring her to the Corprusarium."

"Oh. That is indeed a shame about Tanusea. She had a good heart. I am saddened by this, but... Aha! You nearly fooled me, clever girl. Let me make a revision to that earlier statement. I would much prefer to listen to you talk about Zaryth Velani."

Zaryth folded her hands in her lap and looked down, not wanting to meet those interrogative eyes. She may as well tell him what happened. There seemed to be no getting out of this one.

"I... we, that is... we were in the Grazelands, and just... out of nowhere, these two Ordinators had the nerve to start harassing us. They... well, they were being absolutely unreasonable, you know?"

"Are they ever reasonable?"

"No! That's the point! They're running around, proselytizing in Telvanni lands as if we were about to defer to their authority, and – and naturally I went and told them as politely as I could that they had no jurisdiction there, and then they, and then they..." Zaryth trailed off. She was staring down at her hands. Tears were building up, she felt like she was going to cry. She clenched her hands into tight fists and unclenched them again and again as if to make sure they still worked, trying to force the tears back down. She was shuddering, grinding her teeth together. She couldn't do this. She didn't know how to say any of it. The memory was still so fresh in her mind, despite her attempts to bottle it everything was coming up at once and there was nothing she could do to wipe it from her mind.

 _That excruciating pain ringing, screaming in her ears..._

By now Divayth Fyr had set his half-finished kwama egg aside to give her his undivided attention.

"Tell me. What did they do to you?"

Though outwardly he still was stolid and unflappable as ever, Zaryth noted the subtle changes in his demeanor. His jaw clenched sternly, and the red glow in his eyes had intensified. And that low, implicit threat in his voice... it made the hairs on her arms stand up. His entire bearing had shifted into something deadly.

 _The stiff heavy gauntlets holding her back as she kicked helplessly against the impenetrable armor..._

Zaryth was having difficulty keeping herself together when the metaphorical floodgate that kept her memories back was now open. Why had this affected her so much? She tried to choke down an ugly sob that she did not want him to hear, but she knew such efforts were futile.

Eventually, when she had calmed enough to be able to speak, she held up her hands directly in front of her face, palms facing her. Her vision was partially obscured by this so she fanned her fingers out, seeing her master still sitting upright, watching her.

"They... had my hands, Master Fyr, and... my fingers, they broke my fingers, one by one. It... it wasn't the pain, it's not why I'm... I mean, it was immeasurably painful, the worst I've felt in my life, but that wasn't it. It's as if... when they were holding me back, and they had my _hands_ and I can't cast spells if I don't have my hands and if I can't cast spells I'm... I'm... I don't know, I don't know, it was all so... I just felt..."

These words between panicked breaths were slippery and uncontrollable, tumbling out of her like a mudslide. She didn't even understand half the nonsense she had just blurted out. Tears clouded her eyes rendering her partially blind yet again.

"Zaryth..."

Even Divayth didn't seem to know where to find any words. He pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered a curse under his breath.

"You felt powerless, because they held you down and you couldn't cast spells. That is what you wanted to say, no?"

Zaryth nodded, numbly. Her face was tingling. She understood this was because she had been hyperventilating and not really getting enough air in. Now she was just tired. Not even enough energy to cry anymore. She took slow, shuddering breaths.

"If I can't use magicka, I am nothing."

Her voice was dull, defeated.

Zaryth closed her eyes, burying her face in her hands.

She wanted to disappear into nothingness right now. Or just sleep for a very long time, until these awful feelings went away.

"Do you know why they hurt you?" came Divayth's voice.

"I don't know, I said some foolish things. Does it matter? They were stronger than me, and they wanted to prove it."

Her speech was still muffled by her face being in her hands.

"Zaryth. Look at me. Why did the Ordinators feel the need to prove their strength? The scary masks and ebony maces are intimidating enough for most people."

"They're just antagonistic like that."  
"Well, yes, of course they are. They are the fanatic enforcers of a totalitarian theocracy, after all. But Zaryth, believe me when I tell you this. They did this to you because they were afraid of you."

Zaryth blinked.  
"That's... No. Why would they be afraid?"

"Why _wouldn't_ they be afraid? People like you, ah... how to say it? You do not take anything as absolute. You question everything. Ordinators... like the ones you had that unfortunate encounter with, they only know to accept the will of the Tribunal as law. They have established this institution based on their unconditional devotion to the scriptures. They defer simperingly to Almsivi, whom they see as infallible, accepting their words as the flawless truth. Principally, they are exacting the will of their god-ruler overlords. When you question the power of these enforcers, you are shaking the very foundation of their beliefs. You are challenging the gods themselves, and you are unafraid."

Zaryth wondered when he was going to get to the point. Well, of course if she fancied getting her fingers broken again she could stand up to the Ordinators when she knew that they were spewing lies and filth, but what good had that done her? But as helpless and infantile as she had been rendered at that moment, she recognized that even she had been shown mercy. The Ashlanders had suffered a far worse fate. The dead bodies piled up carelessly, their eyes, oh, no, the eyes, she remembered looking at their terrified, dead eyes and realizing that the last image they saw was that awful bonemold mask staring unemotional, unyielding.

"There... there were Ashlanders too. Like... ten, twelve of them, I don't know. Dead. All of them. They killed them. They're just horrible..."

"That is... exceptionally despicable," said the older wizard. He seemed about to say something else, but he froze, simply staring in front of him as if in a daze. Zaryth waited several seconds before speaking.

"Master Fyr?"

Divayth snapped out of his reverie, placing a hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn.

"Mm. Where was I? Ah. You, Zaryth... you are worth far more than what you think you are. Of course you have an exceptional command of magicka. You learned from the best, after all. But that is not what makes you admirable. It's your cognition, Zaryth, the synthesis of original thought within the fibers of your brain. Why I made you my apprentice, despite your young age, it was... your beautiful inquisitiveness. You already understood that truth and reality are only matters of individual perception, and you had come to this revelation on your own. Some people have nothing more than a squiggly cluster of soft tissue and nerves inside their skulls. They will always feel threatened by you, because they are content to accept a singular set of narrow ideas. They are slaves, shackled by their own ignorance. Even many of House Telvanni's powerful wizard-lords, they pride themselves on being the most free-thinking of the Great Houses, but are still blinded by their self-serving endeavors. You are liberated from these basal hindrances and seek knowledge not for power or recognition but simply because of your fascination with explaining the inexplicable and knowing the unknown. Not unlike myself when I was at your impressionable young age, ha! I intend that as a compliment, by the way. If I had taken you in solely because of your magical capacity, a foolish master indeed I would have been for that inconceivable waste of potential. In fact, I do not believe that there is anyone else in the entirety of Zafirbel Bay or even the rest of Morrowind that I would rather have as my apprentice."  
Zaryth was trembling. Her mouth opened up, her lips were moving, trying to form words, but she didn't know what to say to him.

Again, she wondered what the point of all of this was. Being told she was more enlightened than some decorated thug didn't really change her opinion about what had actually happened in the Grazelands, and if she were put in the same situation she would be just as helpless as she was back then, but...

No, addressing those issues didn't seem to be the point of his rambling. He must be unbelievably tired, she didn't blame him for going on about something slightly unrelated. It was shocking that he was still listening to her and not passed out by now. But even if nothing really changed, it still made her feel very happy.

She had never thought of herself in that way before. No one had ever... spoken so _highly_ of her, not once. She always assumed she had acquired this apprenticeship out of sheer luck, being in the right place at the right time. It was what all the other Telvanni said.

But now she knew that wasn't what it was about at all. His words made her sound like she was this wonderful, special individual.

It was an odd thing, how much relief she felt just from talking about her experience. For him to listen to her without interruption... Zaryth wasn't sure what this feeling was exactly, but she felt understood, appreciated even. But she wasn't going to think about that... unpleasant incident. Zaryth could push it aside and focus on far more pleasant things, like the moment at hand.

She felt that she had a lot to be thankful for. This evening was one of them. And though they were doing little more than sitting and having a simple conversation, this was one of the best moments in her life.

For about an hour there was a bit more talk after that, little things. Divayth went back to enjoying his kwama egg with relish as he related to her many of the fascinating things he did during those two weeks in the Deadlands. Zaryth was quite impressed. With his clever disguise, the wizard had managed to wriggle his way into the Dremora chain of command, ascending in rank from a lowly Caitiff all the way to Kynmarcher at a meteoric rate. All of this, of course, was to become more familiar with the inner workings of Mehrunes Dagon's servants and perhaps catch a few of their secrets. Very few people understood the intricacies behind Dremora culture and hierarchy. Indubitably, few were daring enough to mingle with Daedra, or competent enough to fool them as he had.

"... After I managed to infiltrate the higher echelons of Dremora society, finally a Kynmarcher lording over my own Citadel, I received a formal challenge from a most notable adversary. Oh, he was remarkably fierce. Lord Zovirdax, though an impressive Valkynaz himself, rightfully feared my rapid accession and quite passionately declared that we could only settle this dispute through combat. Now, you must understand that when a Dremora is defeated, it merely floats around in the Void for a while until it... well, I'm not entirely sure what the process entails myself, but they always come back. The stakes were much higher for a mortal such as I, though perhaps Aetherius might make an exception if my life is ended abruptly, knowing what a tragedy it would be if Mundus is bereft of the sagacious wisdom of Divayth Fyr. Ah, but back to Lord Zovirdax. During our honor-duel I finally defeated him when I raised from the scorching pools a searing tide of lava higher than Tel Naga. Rather proud of that one, myself."

He took a sip of his drink and set it aside.

Zaryth was sitting upright, hugging her knees to her chest as she listened to him.

"Naturally I was forced to run from the deadly wave myself, which, as you may imagine, turned out to be quite a precarious exercise while wearing that armor. I only wanted a theatrical display of sheer power to keep my appointed taskmasters in line, which did produce the results I desired and efficiency increased tenfold for those working under me! It also accrued me some... unneeded attention. To my astonishment several formidable Markynaz ladies were soon demanding I mate with them. A task which I'm certain you understand I could not accomplish without them seeing my, erm, mortal limitations, so I had to politely decline these generous propositions so as not to risk revealing my true identity. This only invoked their hatred which led to more duels and further vilification of my character, but of course when among the Dremora it is better to be feared than loved, I'd say. Ahh, but I am so, _so_ glad to be back. I do feel silly for causing any concern with the length of my stay, by the way. I'm afraid that after living so long, the division of time into units such as hours, days and weeks begins to sound so..." he stretched his arms and legs, laying his head down on a cushion now. "Short-sighted..."

Zaryth closed her eyes and started to count to thirty in her head, wondering if counting the seconds would make this happy little moment last a bit longer. After about twenty seconds she realized this was a foolish notion, and that by focusing on the seconds she was missing out on other things, like the lovely chat they were having.

But when Zaryth opened her eyes, she saw the venerable Divayth Fyr laying comfortably on his back, fast asleep. His left hand rested gently on his stomach, which was rising and falling slowly with each steady breath.  
Zaryth felt relaxed just from seeing how comfortable he looked amongst the pillows and cushions in his alcove. She smiled. Even though he wasn't talking anymore or making her laugh with his stories, she was content.

"I'm... incredibly lucky, Master Fyr. Thank you."

She whispered these words so that she wouldn't wake him up, but then she realized that was absurd, because it meant she was just talking to herself. Oh, well. Maybe she could just say the same thing the next time she caught him alone. Though perhaps not. She didn't want to come across as sentimental or anything.

But right now, though this moment was tragically finite because she could not alter her perception of the passing time at will like her master apparently could, Zaryth was undeniably happy.


	22. The Shabby Spymaster

**Balmora, Caius Cosades' House.**

"Nilseth, when I encouraged you to establish a cover identity for yourself in Morrowind, I assumed you'd join some respectable organization, like the Fighters Guild or the Mages guild. Not a renegade band of abolitionists and skooma dealers."

The old Imperial said all of this with unvarying inflection. It was impossible to tell whether he was amused or annoyed.

This was the second time Nils had visited Caius Cosades' "house," which was actually the lower unit of a two-story rowhouse in the slums of Balmora's east side. The unit was only one room, and it was in such a disorderly state that Nils wondered if Caius should be the one lecturing him about proper behavior when his bed was unmade and empty bottles were strewn across the floor.

Of course, the squalor was all part of the Imperial operative's cover. Even his gray hair was unkempt and his eyes bloodshot. It was difficult to believe that this slovenly middle-aged man was a high-ranking Blade, but here he was with both hands on his hips in a strong stance, exuding authority.

One of the legs of the table Nils was seated at was shorter than the other three, giving it an incline. There was a single shelf on the wall that held ragged copies of the first three volumes of _A Brief History of the Empire_. A skooma pipe had been placed like a bookend, cleverly situated behind a redware vase that held a wilted sprig of gold kanet flowers. Even the positioning of the pipe had been part of the design; just conspicuous enough for someone to catch a glimpse of it, and obscured enough to give the impression that he was trying to keep it out of sight.

Nils did not know if Caius wanted him to respond to him or if he was merely going to continue, so he observed the room some more. Not like there was much to look at. Though, a pair of green eyes just by Caius' bed did catch Nils' immediate attention. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed the distinctly feline silhouette shrouded in the corner when he first entered. Had she been there the entire time?

"Addhiranirr?" he asked, his own eyes widening in surprise at the familiar white and copper coat.

The Khajiit's chameleon spell was beginning to wear off. She was crouched on the floor on her hind legs, but flashed Nils a grin, exposing her sharp canines.

That would explain how Caius knew about his associations. Addhiranirr had been there when they infiltrated the Omaren Plantation. He thought she had been with the Thieves Guild.

"You're a Blade?" he asked. This was unbelievable. The Empire had their eyes on him the entire time? Was _J'zhirr_ a Blade too?

"No, no, Khajiit is not a Blade. This one is a good friend of Caius. He does little things for Addhiranirr, and Addhiranirr does little things for Caius."

Caius' expression did not change.

"Addhiranirr is one of our valuable informants in the Thieves Guild."

"But Addhiranirr is not a snitch, no," she added quickly.

"Then why tell Caius about me?"

The Imperial was the one to respond.

"It is fortunate that she did tell me. Dravos Omaren was a Dres plantation owner with Imperial leanings. Perhaps you have not been in Morrowind long enough to understand the significance, but his cooperation could have been a valuable thing for the Empire. In any event I hope I do not have to explain why it might concern me if it becomes known that an agent of the Blades was responsible for his murder."  
Nils wasn't certain how to respond to this. As if he couldn't become even more disillusioned with the Empire. It should have been unthinkable for them to sympathize with slaveholders. Perhaps there were a lot of things Nils did not understand, but he'd once been proud to serve under an emperor that believed in individual rights and equal treatment under the law. Now he didn't know what the Empire stood for anymore.

"In Cyrodiil, someone like Dravos Omaren would have been tried and executed under Imperial law."

"This isn't Cyrodiil. You would do well to remember that. I'm not saying-"

Nils hastily rose to his feet. He heard a banging sound behind him.

"How convenient for-"

He stopped himself abruptly upon realizing that the clattering behind him had been the sound of his chair falling to the floor. Nils knelt down to set it back upright. Though Caius' furniture wasn't in the best condition to start with, he did not want to appear too uncivil. Even if it was growing difficult to actually _want_ to be civil.

The Imperial crossed his arms as he watched Nils, waiting to see if he was going to finish his statement. Truthfully, by now Nils had forgotten the point he was trying to make, so he allowed the old man to continue, seeing as he had interrupted him in the first place.

"I'm not saying I agree with everything the Empire is doing. I'm only mentioning this because my assignment here is to protect you. And so far, you haven't been making it very easy for me. I've had to cover your tracks by planting evidence at the scene of-"

"So you're just going to implicate someone else?! That's – is this how the Blades do things? Find – find some ninny at the wrong place to saddle with the crime and call it a day?"

Addhiranirr winced when Nils began to shout. She slinked back into the corner, as if foreseeing a fight breaking out.

Nils' anger only continued to rise. This was so wrong. It was no different than what had happened to him six years ago.

"Please, Nilseth, sit down. Let me explain."

Nils remained standing. He knew a thing or two about how horrific it was to be wrongly convicted of a crime. He wasn't going to take that lightly. Caius continued after a beat.

"I understand your reaction. Fortunately, the lead I've given them makes reference to an unspecified rogue Telvanni. This means the list of suspects is in the thousands. I doubt that the authorities are going to bother going through the proper channels if they know they have to deal with their ilk. Even if they did, why would House Telvanni even _care_ about the murder of a Dres plantation owner, especially one that tried to set up shop on what they considered their land? No, no one is going to be blamed for this crime. Not even you. It's absolutely believable that a rogue Telvanni was responsible for this, but the Legionnaires would much rather leave this case indefinitely open rather than go poking around in ruins and caves where they've made their homes. The rogue Telvanni are even less friendly than their relatives in the cities. And far more dangerous."

"I know. I met some in Rotheran."

"Sees-Through-Dusk has told me all about it. Which... well, your actions did not follow standard procedure, but... good work. Not only have you saved the life of another agent, you've closed down that cesspit for good. I'm beginning to see why the Emperor chose you."

Nils waited for another "but" to follow, to mention how he had done something else wrong. There wasn't. Maybe he was really was being congratulated on a job well done.

None of that praise mattered much to him. All he really wanted was for Caius to stop patronizing him and get around to telling him what to do.

What else was he here for?

 **Balmora, East Side.**

It was mid-afternoon by the time Nils left Caius' dingy flat with some new orders. This time he was supposed to go to Vivec City. Find a priestess named Mehra Milo and speak to her about unrest within the Temple. Addhiranirr also mentioned an Ilmeni Dren in the St. Delyn canton wished to speak with him. Right. Nils' sense of urgency was accurately conveyed in his meandering pace as he wandered Balmora's east side. All of the houses were made of the same sand-colored brownstone, though businesses were marked with colorful banners.

He stopped in front of the red banner in front of the South Wall Cornerclub. Addhiranirr told him he could have a free room if he spoke to her twin sister... Chirranirr? He hoped he was remembering the name correctly. He didn't want to embarrass himself.

As he reached for the door handle, something grabbed his shoulders and pulled him close to them. A raspy male voice whispered hurriedly in his ear. His breath was rotten.

"Hark! It is the song of the Sharmat! Oh, what resplendent tones! He strikes the bell with the hammer to awaken Resdayn's golden age, but first he must cleanse-"

Nils broke free and punched the assailant in the throat. The enthralled Dunmer crumpled to the ground, gasping and coughing. His eyes were staring in two different directions. This one was an older fellow in a simple pilgrim's robe, his skin tough and leathery. There was a real person inside of the Sleeper. That made this confrontation all the more disturbing, knowing that in some cave or ruin, miles away, there was an ash creature exerting its influence on the people of Balmora.

Nils hurried inside the Cornerclub. This situation was all very horrible, but there wasn't much he could do about it in this immediate moment.

 **Balmora, South Wall Cornerclub.**

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the light. Heavy black curtains were drawn over the windows. The only light came from the red paper lanterns placed at each table. The musky scent of skooma filled his nostrils, and indeed through the cloud of smoke he saw a Dunmer seated at a nearby table with a pipe in his hand, his movements erratic and twitchy. He took to staring at Nils, who was busy avoiding eye contact with the intoxicated mer.

Through the haze he saw a female Khajiit wearing a fancy ruffled blouse and a velvety skirt. Her wrists were adorned in gold bracelets. That was new. He didn't see a lot of Khajiit wearing expensive clothing in Morrowind, unless they were J'zhirr.

"Excuse me, miss. If you're not too busy, may I have a moment of your time?"

"Such nectar in his words. Tsk. What can Chirranirr do for you?"

"You're Chirranirr?" Nils squinted. Perhaps without the smokescreen he would be able to see her better, but he saw the same orange-white coat that Addhiranirr had. Chirranirr had fancier attire, though.  
"Your sister told me to come here. I don't know if she spoke to you yet, but-"

When Chirranirr grinned, the resemblance to her twin was uncanny.

"Yes. Addhiranirr has named you a good friend. You want the sugar? Chirranirr has special price for you."

Nils was beginning to feel a bit out of place. But he kept his calm, not wanting to offend the Khajiit. He managed to explain to her what he needed, without embarrassing himself, though Chirranirr seemed a bit surprised that a single bed was all he wanted. He even offered to pay but she refused. Nils wasn't certain what Addhiranirr had told her sister, but it must have been something good, because Chirranirr was going out of her way to be nice to him.

In order to get to the second floor of the cornerclub, Nils had to take the staircase outdoors. When he exited the building, he dreaded another encounter with that unfortunate Dunmer from before, but he spotted the sleeper standing on the bridge going over the Odai River, making faces at his reflection in the water. Nils wondered if a guard or someone would deal with the poor Void-head eventually. Hopefully they wouldn't hurt him too bad.

The bed in his room was really more of a large canvas hammock stretched across the length of the room, but it looked comfortable enough, with a pillow and several thick blankets. This was common in a lot of lower-end Dunmer establishments; the soft beds in Dagon Fel would have been considered quite a luxury in Balmora. But the room was clean, and some green light filtered in from the tinted glass window. Wasn't much else he could ask for.

Nils' shoulders felt relieved the moment he shrugged his rucksack to the floor. Not like there was anywhere else to put it. The room was rather barren. There was a washbasin and a mirror in the corner of the room, and Nils was grateful for this. He had stopped by Fort Moonmoth and purchased a proper shaving kit at the Imperial commissary, allowing himself this one Cyrodiilic luxury rather than subject himself to a rough shave with those sharpened chitin tools that the Dunmer thought appropriate for so delicate a task.

The compact leather case was stamped with _EEC_. Good to know the proper import taxes had been paid. He unclasped it and removed each item that he needed – a coin-sized cake of soap, a soft-bristled brush with a wood handle, and a steel straight razor, the blade folded into an ivory handle. There was even a bottle of liniment and another with scented oils. This was all quite nice.

Returning to his room with a porcelain cup and a basin full of warm water, Nils removed his shirt and whipped the soap into a lather. He might have taken a bit too long to apply the lather to his face. It was just such an enjoyable, familiar experience, the creamy soap against his skin, the gentle tickle of the brush bristles. Something he had once taken for granted was now an experience to be relished. He knew that if he ever returned home after this there would be a lot more things he would appreciate. The food was definitely high on that list.

When he was about to begin, he frowned. The mirror had a crack in the middle. Ah, well. This would have to do.

Holding the razor with his left hand he used his right hand to keep his skin taut. He had honed it earlier, and the blade was sharp enough that he only needed to graze the surface of his face with slow and delicate upward strokes. He tilted his head back to get to his neck. How had he ever thought of this act as a bother? There was something so calming and methodical about it, so familiar...

A timid knock came to his door.

Thankfully Nils did not have his razor pressed against his neck at the moment, or else there may have been a bit of a problem.

"Yes?" he called out.

Without asking to enter, an elf – Bosmer by the look of it, with her pale skin and slight build – let herself into his room.

"Uhh," Nils started, feeling a little abashment at standing in front of her bare chested and his face covered in lather.

"Food's ready, so if you wanted to come down..."

The Bosmer trailed off, staring at Nils with protruding amber eyes. She had a small, pretty face and back-braided silvery blonde hair.

"Stairs..." she finished. That'd been an odd little pause.

"Thank you. Let me finish up here and I'll be down in a few minutes," Nils responded politely, smiling at her. He wondered if he should put his shirt on or something. She ought to be leaving anyways, so he probably didn't need to bother.

The Bosmer tightened her lips and looked down at the ground. Her pants were tucked into bulky, lace-up boots that looked a size too big for her.

"Or was there something else I could help you with?" he ventured.

"Erm... could I stay here until you're done? There's this lunatic hanging around outside, and..."

Nils nodded, eyebrows raising in concern.

"I know exactly who you're talking about. Did he hurt you?"

"Yes – no, err, I mean, not really. He was just by the stairs and grabbed me is all. I kneed him real hard – like _this_ – and ran."

Nils nodded. Why hadn't anything been yet? Though the Dunmer hadn't actually _attacked_ anyone yet, Nils could see this becoming a public safety issue very quickly.

"Feel free to stay. I hope you don't mind if I, err..." he gestured at his partially shaven face.

The mer tilted her head.

"Mind if you... oh! Yes. I mean no. I don't mind. By all means, go ahead. I'm Natesse, by the way."

"Nils. It's a pleasure to meet you. You can sit down if you'd like. Do you work here?"

Though his back was turned as he continued to shave, he could see Natesse's reflection in the mirror. She nodded vigorously.

"I help out around the place. Mostly I just cook, clean, or do whatever else Sugar-Lips tells me to do. When I joined the guild I thought it'd be more exciting, but I keep reminding myself that everyone at the top was a footpad once, yeah?"

"Indeed," said Nils between strokes. Natesse seemed... friendly. And talkative. That was a rare thing in Morrowind.

"Are you with the guild?" she asked.

"Hmm?" Nils assumed she was talking about the Thieves Guild, but he was in the middle of a stroke and didn't want to speak.

"Oh, I mean... I'm no rat or anything. You can tell me."

"I'm not with the guild, but I've got acquaintances," he said, adding more lather to his chin.

"Oh? Who do you know?"

"Well, I've worked with Addhiranirr before. And now I know her sister, I suppose."  
"I know those cats. Twins, yeah? They're neat. I haven't met Addhiranirr but I hear she comes in sometimes. Pretends to be her sister. Guess she wants to make sure we're really working. Sugar-Lips is the real boss in Balmora, but Chirranirr runs the day-to-day stuff. Big Helende over in Sadrith Mora shipped me here, so I've only been here a few weeks. I don't know everyone in the area yet. Really nice people though."

"Are you from Sadrith Mora?"

Natesse leaned back against the wall and crossed her legs. "Well..." she started. This sounded like it was going to be a long story.

"I was born in Falinesti – that's in Valenwood if you didn't know – but I was too young to remember any of it. I grew up in Tel Mora with my mother, it's, uhh... do you know about Tel Mora?"

"I can take a wild guess and say that it's a Telvanni settlement," Nils answered, eliciting a laugh from Natesse.

"Yeah, that's right. Mistress Dratha is the Telvanni wizard-lord that rules over Tel Mora. She erm... she doesn't like men. Not, uhh, not like, Man as in not-mer, she hates male mer just the same, but they're not allowed on the island. At all."

"That sounds..." Nils couldn't think of the right word to say. Bizarre? Deranged? Instead he decided to change direction.

"Is it a large community? It must be difficult for a population like that to grow."

"Oh, about... two hundred or so, when I left. Very tight-knit. We all knew each other. But it wasn't horrible or anything. Mistress Dratha was a nut, but she provided generously. Everyone would be taken care of. No one had want of anything."

"Why did you leave?"

"I wanted to see the rest of the world. They were nice to me and all, but I almost felt like a prisoner – I couldn't say or do anything without everyone knowing. I don't know how to explain it. It was too stifling. They'd act like it's this perfect, ideal place and that Tel Mora's so much better than the rest of Morrowind and I'd be crazy for wanting to leave, but..."

Natesse's reflection in the mirror shrugged. She had cut herself off a bit abruptly there. He wondered if there was something she wanted to add to that statement.

"I left when I turned twenty. I guess I found out the hard way that people in the rest of the civilized world aren't keen on doing nice things for strangers without money, but I convinced the captain of a merchant ship to get me out of there in exchange for some potions I made. I've been free ever since."

That part sounded a bit rehearsed. Not like that meant anything. She's probably told this story to a lot of people.

Nils rubbed his face with a wet towel, but did glance at Natesse a moment. Freedom. He'd been thinking about that a lot, lately...

"That's great. I'm glad that you got out of there," Nils said, folding the towel over the basin and picking up his shirt.

"What does your tattoo mean?" she asked suddenly, looking at his bare chest again.

Dammit.

Nils looked down at the small identification tag inked just below his collarbone.

 _N.V._

 _*2-12-396_

 _M_

"I was a prisoner, too."

Sometimes it felt like he'd never stopped being one.

He drew his arms through the sleeves of his shirt, leaving it open as he went back to the basin with a small bottle in hand.

"You seem too... I don't know, polite. Really bad criminals are the kind that get a tattoo. You don't seem like a bad criminal. You're not rough, like the other Dunmer... a lot of Dunmer here are so _rough!_ I mean, usually they're decent when you get to know them, but they're just... _'What do you want, outlander?_ '" she croaked, mimicking the ash-worn voice of the older native Dunmer.

"Hah, that hurt my voice a little," the Bosmer added sheepishly.

Nils let out a good laugh at that. Natesse was funny. He rubbed liniment in his hands and splashed his face, wincing at the acidic sting.

"But you look more like a half-Dunmer, really..." she mused.

"I am," answered Nils, eager to change the subject away from his prison sentence. He hastily started to button his shirt. "Half-Imperial, too. Where I grew up, well, it's probably nowhere near as interesting as where you're coming from. I used to live in Cheydinhal. In Eastern Cyrodiil, close to the Morrowind border."

"I've never heard of a place that didn't have _something_ unique about it."

When Nils' hands reached the collar of his shirt he had the feeling that something was a little off. He looked down and drew in a sharp breath, exhaling slowly. In his carelessness he had skipped a button in the middle. He resisted the urge to curse, conceding to unbutton everything and start the entire process over again. Natesse was giggling at his clumsiness for some reason, and still awaited his response. Nils tried to think of an answer that wasn't some sentimental personal anecdote that she didn't want to hear.

"Well, I suppose the roads are well-paved. White stones, too. Every month or so the priest gives the beggars a handful of Septims each to scrape the moss between the cobblestones around the Chapel of Arkay. A famous painter lives in Cheydinhal, too. Rythe Lythandas."

Natesse blinked twice at the name, and he felt a little silly for mentioning an artist that was probably only well-known in Cyrodiil. He regretted bringing up his hometown at all, really. There were a lot of things about Cheydinhal that were special to Nils, and they had nothing to do with the white cobblestones or serjo Lythandas. But an adventure-seeker like her ought to find it all rather quaint. Nils' life was never really interesting until the Blades got involved. Not like he asked for any of this. He'd much rather go back to his quiet little town.

He walked towards the door. "Well, I'm done here. Are you ready to leave?" he asked. He was starting to feel rather hungry, but the local fare wasn't that much worth looking forward to. Probably ash yams again. Served plain. Salt was becoming increasingly rare, with the recent trade restrictions. Maybe if he was really lucky there'd be a bit of crab meat. Or a kwama egg. He could hardly contain his excitement.

"Hm? For wha- oh! Right. Yeah. I'll stay close, in case that awful person comes back," she said, hopping up to her feet. Nils eyed a dagger sheathed at her belt. She seemed competent enough to defend herself, but he understood why she'd be nervous to walk around this part of Balmora alone at night, even if it was literally just down the stairs.

"Shouldn't the guards do something about him?" Nils asked.

Natesse snorted.

"They don't really go to this side of the bridge unless some rich person gets robbed or something. Occasionally they do the rounds, break up a fight, bust a back-alley skooma dealer, but that's it. They don't even go near the South Wall Cornerclub. Works for us, though. The guild, I mean. We watch each other's backs. Better they stay away. And they do, so long as Sugar-Lips keeps their pockets fat."

Seemed the "special" relationship between the Thieves Guild and the local authorities was the same as it was in Cyrodiil.

The food they were served was exactly as he'd guessed. Plain, boiled ash yams. He could stomach them, and they were sustaining, but that was all he could really say. Yet as the evening went on Nils found himself focusing less on his food and more on Natesse. Even ash yams were fine when shared with pleasant company.


	23. Sweet Vitriol

**Vivec, Palace of Vivec.**

Vivec looked upon the girl that crouched now on the ophicalcite tile.

Her visage cloaked by an opaque veil, ephemeral white like ancestor-silk.

This face-shroud was because of her flickering soul, her eyes that could not see his brilliance lest he betray the Truth to her. Ayem had erased another person with her love as she had done with others.

"You need not bow to us, child," he said in a warm voice he reserved for meek creatures such as her.

The waif was nine, ten paces away, but he heard the gentle rustling of her layered white skirts as she stood. She had not dared come any closer to the dais where he floated.

All she could express was a pious silence. He understood this timidity to approach his splendor. Vivec knew how overwhelming his divine presence could be.

"Please. Do not be afraid of us. If you love the words of Almsivi, this place shall be your sanctuary. What is your name, child?"

Not even then did the lady in white break her silence.

Though a cavernous distance lay between them, Vivec could clearly hear the steady beating of her heart pumping blood through each tributary. Focusing closer on a rumbling sound he recognized the peristaltic contractions of an empty stomach. Vivec almost extended his hospitality by offering her nourishment, but then he remembered it was Frostfall, which meant she would be fasting for the month of St. Rilms. Vivec had approved many liturgies to indulge the priests that had proposed them to him centuries ago, including this one. They seemed to like things like that.

And still, this unthinking puppet said nothing.

The only noises in his palace were the disgusting sounds coming from the mortal container of the girl's weak soul. He could kill her now and make it stop, cut short this foolish silent defiance, silence the repetitive thump-thump of her heart and the repulsive belly-worm gnawing at her sides and the faint whistle that came from her nose as she inhaled and exhaled. First he would tear off her veil and blind her with his divinity that she with her weak will could not live with. Was she mocking him, practicing this arbitrary self-starvation to honor the saints yet having the audacity to ignore a direct question from the god that had canonized them? Was this merely hypocrisy of a simple mind or had Ayem begun to poison her subjects against him?

He let not his ire affect his volume, but he became a syrup-wraith with sweet vitriol.

"Oh, what a _smart_ thing you are. You have the audience of a _god_ , and you do not acknowledge him? It would be wise to fear divine retribution, blessed envoy, ere this sanctuary becomes your funerary pyre."

His words came from the memory her effervescent garb evoked. He could not forget the funeral of the mother of Sotha Sil, in the ancestor tomb of the long-dead great House Sotha. They wrapped her in a silky cocoon of pure white before giving her the funeral rites, burning into nothing but ash and bits of bone...

Vivec did hear her heart fluttering like a hummingbird. He could see through her now and he understood. This was not the young woman's defiance. It was Ayem's magic that sealed her voice.

The god-king floated down from his dais, bridging the spaces between them until she was at arm's length.

With gentle words and gentle touch Vivec undid the binding spell on her voice. There was more to the magic of unbinding that he wanted to perform but he did not wish to anger his sister.

"Your eminence," she uttered. Her words were clumsy and soft from disuse.

The young lady's body trembled lightly but he whispered absolution unto her.

Vivec held her hands a moment longer so that she would not hide them again under the loose silky sleeves of her sash-tied robe. Such small hands. What a fragile eggshell this mortal body was. Ayem had puréed the girl's personality into a palatable purity. How cruel and vainglorious an act, yet the fruit of his sister's caprice was this simple perfection. And though he could not see her face underneath her white silk veil, he imagined her to be lovely and dark. Perhaps this was the most maddening part; he longed to lay his sight upon her physical form to satisfy his curiosity, yet knew that by lifting the veil he would destroy the very essence of her that he found so alluring. She had bathed recently and he detected a hint of jasmine soap. He understood the priests of the Temple must have scrubbed her clean of any impurities and dressed her in this silk gown and veil before she was was allowed on the steps to his palace.

Vivec dropped her hands suddenly. They were small hands, but rough, like that of a commoner. He remembered she was Ayem's insipid plaything, some gutter-wench the goddess had scraped from the scabby underworld of Mournhold. He was so close that when he heard her stomach churning again he could feel its vibrations. Oh, this made him want to force her to swallow stones, shake her by the shoulders and hear them rattling inside. If he took a bludgeon to her skull he would find naught but soggy peat moss. Why had Ayem created an unsettling thing like this? She did not react in the same way as mortals ought to. It was close to profanity, defilement. He was nothing like that self-idolatrous snake-bitch of a sister. The Lady of Mercy had done this to this young Dunmer, no, this Un-mer in front of him, barely tethered to her own sentience. He could kill her and end this miserable life she had. Or...

"This servant has been summoned at Lord Vivec's request. Perhaps his eminence had desired to ask a question? Or... if he merely wishes me to continue standing here in silence, I shall oblige."

That unvarying voice was the bell that reminded him several minutes had passed in the part of the world where time is oozing and the waifish soul-vessel would be wanting an answer.

"Stand, sit, as long as it is pleasing to you. You are here to represent Lady Almalexia and as you are her envoy I wish only for your comfort. Let us not be so hasty with ourselves. Please, tell me your name."

"Lady Almalexia has taken my name to keep it safe. I have been blessed with her prefix in its stead."

She did not indicate any feelings of her own on the matter.

"Alma, then? Yes, good. If there is anything that you have want of, you need but to ask. How does the city suit you?"

"It suits me fine, your eminence."

"Does it compare to your Lady's Mournhold?"

"They are... difficult to compare, your eminence."

"Oh? Speak your mind, Alma. Do not hide under your expert politeness. I often look for ways to improve upon the lives of the people living here."

"It reeks of sewer water everywhere."

"Yes, you have a point. Perhaps I ought to double the shifts of the canal workers. It hasn't been the easiest task to enforce after an Ordinator was murdered down there. Ah, but that is for another time."

"An Ordinator was murdered? Whatever managed _that_ must be dangerous."

Alma had a level of perception he did not realize. No, of course it made sense. It was part of her design. Not unlike a Dwemer animunculus. Except softer, fleshier. With the flaws that came with any mortal thing that needed constant food and rest. But the murders beneath Vivec City had nothing to do with anything that Vivec wanted to talk about right now. It was the last thing he wanted to discuss with Ayem's chirping little wind-up bird. Ayem was suffering, as they all were after their defeat at Red Mountain, but her methods of coping usually ended up destroying the things she loved.

What his ash-face knew was that they had no chance against the Sharmat, Dagoth Ur. He had seen the culprit in the sewers with his secret eye. A dreamer prophet with soul-sickening whispers. If someone struck her down, two more would take her place.

The Tribunal did not have the tools. They did not have the Heart of Lorkhan. Now, they were only gods for as long as the populace continued to believe they were.

Who would have loved Vivec were he not a god? Who had loved the bloody-nosed netchiman's boy-girl with dirty fingernails and a broken sandal strap? Who had loved the mortal he had been, aside from what a sixth-dram could buy?

The Hortator, who had loved him with the genuineness he never deserved.

It was too late now, for any of that.

"It matters not. You think someone can stand against a god and live, shit-wit?"

The blue flames in his hair intensified. Vivec stared at Alma's silk-wrapped figure. There was no reaction in the slightest. Nary a twitch or whimper from under her cloak.

"No, I suppose not, your eminence," she said icily. There was no feeling. This was most unsettling. Vivec would always be oceans ahead in conversation when he could feel any mortal's emotions. Not this one. He felt nothing but emptiness from her. Ayem had done work. Hollowed her out like a wooden doll and painted her to resemble a priestess.

"Are you nothing more than a marionette with strings tied to your back? Do you feel _anything_?" he challenged further.

The silence was so thick that Vivec could hear Alma's eyelashes blink against the fabric of the veil. This time, he was awaiting her response.

"I... do have feelings, much like anyone else. I... your eminence, I apologize if I have caused offense by not displaying them in a way you see fit..."

"No, no. Such sentiments are unnecessary. I am not offended. Tell me more about your life in Mournhold. Is Almalexia treating you well?"

"Extraordinarily well, your eminence."

"She's not hurting you in any way?"

"Never, your eminence."

"Does she speak of me?"

"She mentions you, yes. Never ill, though. I believe she still is fond of you, Lord Vivec."

That was a dangerous thought. He decided he did not want to talk about Ayem anymore. It was easier to think she was plotting against him. She could very well still be. That was why he needed to be oceans ahead of her.

"Alma."

"Yes, your eminence?"

"Who _is_ this outlander that your Lady Almalexia is apparently so fascinated with?"


	24. Warrior of the Urshilaku

**Ascadian Isles Region.**

Nils didn't know why he had never traveled by silt strider before, despite being in Morrowind long enough to warrant it. It wasn't like they were a particularly expensive method of travel; the prices were surprisingly affordable, about the same as passage by boat.

Perhaps it was the idea of being on top of a stilt-legged crustacean the size of a mansion that unsettled him. Yet here he was, inside the part of the creature's chitinous shell that had been hollowed out to form a seat, on the road from Balmora to Vivec. Selvil the caravaner was seated in front of him, controlling the silt strider's direction and speed with a short silver rod. When Nils watched with silent interest, he could see that the rod delivered a mild shock to the creature's exposed flesh.

"Does it... hurt the silt strider?" he asked after a while.

Selvil grunted, turning to face his passenger. At first glance the dour, dark-haired Dunmer looked to be an older sort, though upon closer examination it was likely his skin was so dark and weathered from a career that required spending a lot of time exposed to the elements. He was scrawny, with bones clearly visible, but Nils was beginning to realize that most working-class Dunmer looked somewhat malnourished. It was starting to make a lot of sense why the natives always seemed to be scowling.

"Lot of outlanders ask that question. 'Tis a funny thing. Hmph. Aye, I suppose it doesn't hurt her any more than what your lot do to... erm, what are the soft four-legged beasts with the bristly tails and funny shaped heads?"

"Horses?"

"Aye, sera. Silt striders don't seem to mind either way. It doesn't hurt her any; I'm just telling her brain where to move," he said, prodding the fleshy part with his rod once more. The silt strider veered slightly to the right.

"Now that I think about it, I only hear her whining when she's not running. Fancy that. 'Does it hurt?' Hmph. I wonder if the Empire asked themselves that question when they set a qua... quaranta... dammit, that thing-"

"Quarantine?"

"Right, I wonder if they asked how much this might hurt _us_ to set a quarantine on Vvardenfell, while the Blight is killing our herds and poisoning our crops. I've got a wife and four children at home and they're looking thinner every day. Tax collectors take most my earnings so's their soldiers at Fort Moonmoth can important meat and brandy. Damn Imperials."

Nils listened in silence. He'd spoken to people like Zaryth about the occupation, of course, but the Telvanni couldn't be bothered to care about such a minor nuisance. But it looked like the common folk suffered the most. They crossed the ancient Dwemer bridge over the Foyada Mamaea. Nils dared himself to look down. The landscape had turned ashen and gray. He imagined what the ravine below may have looked like when it was filled with lava the last time Red Mountain erupted.

The Dunmer continued, though his voice was not so gruff this time.

"Not that I'm complaining, sera. I know there's others got it worse. Long as I can still work, we'll manage, but... hmph. Forget it. I don't know why I'm telling all my woes to some outlander here. I'll just keep my eyes on the road like you want me to, sera."

"It's no bother to me if you want to tell me."

"Just... haven't been sleeping well, I suppose. Bad dreams. We try to ignore them but it's hard, with what's happening. I don't know anyone living in the east side of Balmora who's not suffering, 'cept maybe the heathens at the Cornerclub. My neighbors are busy worrying about catching Corprus. Not me. Me, I'm just worried 'bout putting enough food on the table for my family and still have enough drakes left for taxes, and... oh, Almsivi have mercy, I don't want them to take my beloved Katariah from me."

"Is that your wife?" he asked, knowing many Dunmer girls were still named after the beloved late Empress.

"No, she's the silt strider you're sitting in. Katariah's my freedom. Without her I'd be slaving in the mines or wherever else they send their debtors. But I'm not gonna agree to let any of them help me. I know how they do things. Trick people with their fancy talk. Before you know it you've signed away your life. Happened to my brother-in-law. Dolmyn Thirelas. East Empire Company let him work a piece of their land in exchange for half of what his farm could produce. Contract was all done up in Cyrodiilic scribbles. Most of us can barely read that writing, let alone the big words and fancy talk. But it seemed a good deal at the time and he was swanking it up until the Blight came around. The ash storms ravaged his crops and killed his guar. Place became a wasteland like a lot of plantations now. Poor old Dolmyn had nothing to give to the EEC when they came around. So they whip out the contract with his signature on it and wave it in his face, saying he's gotta work in the mines until he pays off the cost of the entire plot of land. Where do they send him? A glass mine. Right inside the Ghostfence. I'm not making this up. I wish I were, sera."

"That's... awful. I'm sorry. No one should have to go through that."

The Ghostfence had been erected specifically to keep the Blight and its twisted monsters contained within the Red Mountain region. What kind of heartless person would even _consider_ operating a mine there?

Nils turned to watch the scenery as it whirled by. They were treading over green land blossoming with gold kanet, but the ravine dipping just a little ways left of the path was a channel of gray and black ash, the Foyada Mamaea still present along their route. It was certainly representative of how diverse Morrowind's countryside could be.

They both said nothing for a while. Nils admired the caravaner, and appreciated him telling his story. He was more resilient and optimistic than most in his situation might be, taking a lot of pride in being an independent agent, not having to work under anyone's authority.

They continued at a steady pace southwest, towards Vivec. Coming to a crossroads they reached a signpost, though they were too far up to read the writing on the arrows.

Without forewarning, the caravaner prodded the silt strider into making a sharp turn off the road and into the foyada, bringing them down into the ashen side of the region. The movement was so sudden that Nils had to hold on to the side of the compartment. This seemed like an odd detour, and the opposite direction of where they wanted to go.

"Are you certain this is the best way to get to Vivec?" Nils asked.

The caravaner was prodding the silt strider to increase its speed.

"The place where I take you. It is where the dreams are made."

 _Oh, no..._

Was his caravaner falling to Dagoth Ur's influence?

The increased speed whipped the wind into his ears. Charred black trees and craggy rocks flew past in a dizzying blur. The silt strider was making a high whining sound. Like a scream. Yet the caravaner continued to prod it.

"Slow down! You're hurting your precious Katariah!"

The Dunmer responded with raspy laughter.

"It is the Imperial mutts that treat us like domesticated animals. We have been sold into slavery by the cursed false gods. For too long we have been asleep. Shackled and humiliated by the inferior races of Man, betrayed, deposed! But soon – soon! We will purge the n'wah from the land and reclaim our place!"

Nils' eyes were watering. He could hardly see, but he could still hear the disturbed laughter of the caravaner. That rod that he was using on the silt strider, if only he could grab it...

Nils extended his left arm as far as it would go, but he still could not reach the caravaner. Fighting against the uncompromising force of wind, Nils gripped the side of the carapace with his right hand and raised himself slowly. He stretched his left hand out again, closer, closer... With a swipe of his hand he attempted to grab the rod, but he latched onto the sleeper's wrist instead.

The mer uttered a shattering nightmarish shriek, twisting his bony arm free from Nils' grasp. He slammed the rod on his head. The blow was hard enough to knock Nils back, his ears ringing.

"Why do you not rejoice? Do you not hear the Song that unites us? Do you not see what awaits the faithful? I will take you to the cavern of dreams so you too may understand."

Nils' head was throbbing. He didn't want to go anywhere this caravaner wanted him to go. And yet the silt strider continued its mad pace through the rocky channel.

Though Nils was very much aware of the ebony dagger at his belt bouncing against his side, reminding him he could take control of this situation very easily, the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Selvil. He cared deeply for his wife and his four children and took so much pride in his humble profession, not to mention the appreciation he had for his silt strider, Katariah. He had a great deal of concern for the plight of the Dunmer people, and the Sixth House had twisted his ideals, confusing and maddening him with their dark whispers and disturbing dreams.

Arms clutching both sides of the hollowed compartment, Nils laboriously pulled himself upright on the cushioned seat. The blow to his head and the up down up down of the relentless galloping pace made his insides curdle with nausea. But the Dunmer had his back to him now as he focused on navigation. This was his chance. Nils spread his feet wide apart so that his legs were clenched against the sides of the compartment and leaned forward as far as he could go. He caught both of the caravaner's wrists and pulled his arms behind his back as if he were making an arrest, but then yanked him downwards with him. The Dunmer retaliated by thrashing and kicking wildly. His foot hit the soft exposed organ at the front of the compartment. It made a squishing sound. The silt strider uttered a chilling screech and came to a lumbering halt, its stilt legs straightening and locking. The thorax of the crustacean shuddered, and its entire body was wavering dangerously.

Even the enthralled one ceased his thrashing for a moment to take notice of what was going on. Nils pushed him away and clambered forwards, to the frontal end of the silt strider. He could feel his pulse hammering in his throat. Swallowing, trying not to focus on the height, he clambered on to one of the front chitinous limbs and slid down halfway just as the silt strider began its fall. Nils leaped to safety just in time, landing on the ashen ground with an unceremonious thud on his bottom. He continued to crawl backwards, away from the pending fall. Time slowed for him as he watched with unblinking eyes. This spectacular creature was tall as a cathedral, with a thorax the size of a mammoth, and Nils was watching it crashing down as its spindly legs gave way. It fell with a tremendous thud that made the very ground tremble. The silt strider's legs curled inside its exoskeleton. Nils jumped to his feet and rushed to the crash site.

"Selvil!" he shouted. There was no response. He found the Dunmer laying unconscious beside his silt strider, his right leg and arm contorted into unnatural positions. Nils checked for a pulse, and let out a great sigh of relief when he felt the faint throb of life in his wrist. He would be able to heal Selvil, for he already had practice healing broken bones, but healing a wounded silt strider was something completely different. He didn't even know what parts of it were injured.

He looked all around. They were deep into the foyada, close to its end. By now they were far from any normal roads.

Along the craggy edges of this dusty basin he spotted a dark cave entrance. There was something extremely... foreboding about it, and he didn't like turning his back to it. When he crouched to set Selvil's broken bones straight with a healing spell, he made certain that his eyes were locked on that black, yawning hole in the rocks.

When he was finished healing Selvil, Nils' ears picked up a faraway galloping sound. Through the dusty air he saw a person mounted on a guar, cantering in his direction.

"Stop!" Nils cried, waving his arms as he ran towards them. He didn't know if this person was a bandit or something, but he was willing to take a chance if they could give him a third option, one that didn't involve being stranded out here or leaving Selvil and a wounded silt strider for dead. The mystery person slapped the guar's side, gaining speed. He heard an indistinct voice, but anything they said was lost in the wind.

Nils wondered what they were trying to say. He heard a shuffling, sloshing wet sound behind him. Bristling, he spun around to find himself staring into the six glassy eyes belonging to the most unpleasant thing he had ever seen in his entire life. Its face, if it could be called a face, was made up of several writhing tentacles so long they nearly brushed the ground. It wore a shimmery, hooded purple robe, decorated with an ornate sash of yellows and oranges. It... may have once been the shape of a person, but its proportions were all wrong. It was stout, its body swollen and corpulent, yet stubby twig arms dangled limp at its side, atrophied and gangrenous.

Nils reached for the weapon sheathed at his belt. He didn't know _what_ this thing was, but his instincts told him he needed to kill this abomination immediately. Yet before he could even brandish the ebony dagger, one of the monster's slimy tentacles coiled around the length of his arm like a snake. Despite its bloated appearance, the thing had incredible reactionary speed. Nils wanted to scream, to cut free and run, but terror turned his bones to gelatin and he was helplessly weak. He thought he might pass out. His surroundings were closing in on him and the world felt smaller, smaller. His breath caught sharp in his lungs. Everything was darkening. Gray figures slithered close, whispering ecstatically the same four words to each other.

"The dreamer is awake!"

Three of its moist tendrils squeezed Nils' head, and a timeless, colorless void consumed him.

 _It was not a world that exists but a world of could-be, a single unraveled thread in the tapestry of existence. A Dunmer village under a blighted red sky. None of the villagers appeared emaciated and weak as the commoners did in the present; their arms were brawny and their bodies thick and well-fed. They walked with high spirits and spoke jocular gibberish as they laughed amongst themselves. In this new Morrowind there is no sickness or hunger but Nils knew it to be wrong, he knew it to be all wrong. He looked close and saw their faces were featureless gray slates. The air smelled of rotting meat. Six plump Dunmer children were sitting in a row at a trough. They voraciously began to devour yellow chunks of corprus flesh with their fat greedy fingers._

 _And then he saw the ruins of the Imperial forts. The hordes of identical uniformed Legionnaires, also faceless, being forced to take the stones from their castles to pave the roads. A colossal Dunmer in Daedric armor whipped them mercilessly if they slowed their work._

 _The banners of the five noble Great Houses were set ablaze. The colors of Redoran, Indoril, Dres, Hlaalu, Telvanni all burned into ash. A ghoulish fiend crawling around on all four limbs began to mold the cinders into the banners of House Dagoth. Their emblem with two scarabs decorated every city, every town, every village._

 _And then, he heard a voice. A deep, booming voice that enveloped the land and the sea._

" _Resdayn. That is the true name of our land. Do not utter any false name contrived from the blasphemous covenant of the treacherous god-kings with their marriage to the n'wah scum! Speak her true name proud so all can hear! Resdayn. We are one clan, one House, united against the oppression of foreign invaders! Look to the center of it all. Come to me with open arms, and together, we shall reclaim the land of our ancestors for ourselves and our children!"_

 _Vivec City's cantons sank into the Inner Sea. In Mournhold's palace, the decaying corpses of King Hlaalu Helseth and his court littered the throne room that the ash priests have claimed, whispering twilight secrets among their councils of ghoulish fiends. The pounding steps of a walking brass monstrosity echoed endlessly through the halls._

 _'The center of it all' was in Vvardenfell, beyond the remains of the now-demolished Ghostfence, beneath the mountain where Dagoth Ur awaits. The third eye of his golden mask sees all of their Dreams, hears their thoughts resonate with the Song._

 _The same rich voice spoke again. There was something alluring, almost reassuring about the promises he made for a better Morrowind. Nils tried to ignore the obscene voice and the foul images, yet it was growing more difficult to resist._

" _Do not fear the Song of your ancestors. Listen; it is your salvation. Rejoice! The Sixth House sleeps no more! From the ashes of Resdayn I have risen! The dreamer is awake!"_

Pain. White-hot pain like a spike in the back of his neck. Stars scintillated behind his eyelids. Yet this pain was gone in an instant; not dulling gradually, just vanishing as quickly as it came. Nils was alone in his own mind again. And... laying on his side, curled into a fetal position, apparently. As he cracked his eyes open he was looking up at the hazy figure he now understood was known as an ascended sleeper after that educational lesson courtesy of the Sixth House. That "song" that reverberated throughout the dream must have been the way the minds of all of Dagoth's "children" were linked. But it seemed his own individuality had survived the conditioning. And though he was still himself, he found he knew a lot of new names, could recall memories that were not his own, concepts, know entirely foreign yet familiar words. All these new ideas were rushing through his head but he would process them all later because this thing was still standing over him. He fumbled clumsily for his dagger again, wondering what had made it retract its invasive tentacles.

It took less than a second for Nils to see.

That thing had been impaled by a spear, right in the nape of the neck. Nils rubbed the back of his own neck, remembering that brief, hot pain.

The mysterious rider he had seen just moments before he succumbed must have tossed it. Nils saw them now, approaching ever closer. They vaulted off the galloping two-legged guar, landing with a forward somersault just in time to catch their spear as the tentacled monstrosity vanished into ash on the winds.

The ascended sleeper's purple robes crumpled to the ground. The only remnant was a golden, misshapen skull which hovered in the air a few moments before falling on top of the decorous fabric of its clothes.

The daylight caught the lustrous green tip of the spear. Volcanic glass. Tied at the head was a tassel of dried kelp fronds, stained a rust-color.

And while he could clearly tell what the weapon was, he was having more difficulty discerning the identity of the stranger moving towards him with unfaltering, easy confidence. Clad entirely in rugged netch leather armor boiled to a hardened black, Nils could not determine their race or gender. A skullcap was pulled over their head and ears and a pair of goggles obscured the eyes. They even wore a red scarf over their mouth. They lowered this last piece of fabric partway to speak to Nils.

"Has your soul withstood the dream?"

The voice was oceanlike; deep and sonorous, sounding distinctly feminine.

"Gods, I certainly hope so," Nils managed to reply, still a little breathless.

Her dark lips curled into a half-smile. She looked to be a Dunmer of a fairly pitch complexion, or at least the bottom half of her face did. The mysterious she-warrior offered him a gloved hand. Nils accepted and pulled himself into a seated position.

"Thank you for all of that, by the way. You saved my life– erm-"

Nils pointed at a skulking creature about twenty feet away from her right side; a bald, charcoal-skinned thing on two legs wearing nothing but a loincloth and a pair of sandals. The woman bounced into a fighting stance facing the ash slave. It raised its hands and cast a lightning spell at the spearwoman. Twisting her body to evade the destruction spell, she saw another ash creature flanking her, waving a club in the air. This one was even more scantily-clothed than the last, forgoing even footwear. The most disturbing part was its upper face, which was a hollow void, as if someone had carved a rectangular piece out of its head. An ash child, he knew this thing was called. They were the lowest servants of Dagoth Ur, blind and weak, but still quick enough to take one by surprise. Nils admittedly hadn't seen this one until now, for its skin matched the shade of the ash color of the surrounding landscape.

The spellcasting ash slave had drawn closer as she was dodging. The woman swiveled on her heel, turning her back to it, while at the same time delivering a fierce backwards kick right into its abdomen, knocking the emaciated thing to the ground. Still balancing on one leg she held the spear with two hands in front of her to block the wild attacks from the other creature's club.

When she tried to lower her back leg, the ash creature she had kicked to the ground latched immediately onto it with its entire body, significantly unbalancing her and slowing her movement. She was still engaged with the club-wielder. The next time she blocked an attack with her spear she thrust it upwards forcefully, causing a great enough shock to disarm it. But she was still weighed down by the ash slave latched to her leg, and nearly tripped when she attempted to close the distance between her and the blind creature fumbling for its weapon. Keeping the spear in one hand she drew her other hand into a fist, pounding the bald head of the ash creature repeatedly, desperately trying to get it to let go.

Everything was happening so fast, and Nils felt pretty useless right now. When he tried to stand up he felt a sharp flash of pain and his vision went dark momentarily. Standing wasn't going to happen right now. As his sight cleared he was seeing not two but four of the ash creatures. He could not move any closer, but he did have his dagger out. Hoping that he wouldn't hit his savior, he tossed it straight towards the ash slave that had attached itself to her leg.

Ordinarily Nils was a decent enough marksman, and it was a clear shot that he could have easily made, but to his horror he realized he missed. By a significant margin.

To his astonishment the ever-vigilant spearmaiden raised her free hand and the knife decelerated slightly. She caught it just a shaftment's length away from her. The tip of the blade was pointed right at the space between her eyes.

 _That_ was close.

With a weapon in each hand, she twisted her torso around to slice open the throat of the offending creature with the dagger. It vanished into a cloud of smoke and her leg was free again.

"Thanks!" she called out with genuine appreciation.

Nils couldn't believe it. He was both relieved and mortified. He had almost just hit her in the face with an ebony dagger. At least it helped her free herself, but he figured it was better to go back to sitting here like a sack of flour, at least until his head cleared. The weaker ash creature had re-equipped itself by now and was about to deliver a killing blow. But the warrior whirled around and thrust her spear into its exposed chest, thus ending this altercation.

By that time Nils had clambered to unsteady feet. The stranger nimbly sprang towards him, pulling his arm over her shoulder and allowing him to use her body for support. Her breathing was husky and she smelled of sweat and netch leather.

He was about to thank the stranger again and perhaps ask her name, but then he saw the great crustacean along the barren land. Breaking away he jogged towards the fallen silt strider. With a breath of relief Nils saw that its legs were still moving, sluggishly treading air. It let out a long moan.

"Can you heal her?" Nils asked, crouching down in front of the hollow compartment of its shell. "The silt strider, I mean. Her, uhh, her name is Katariah. Selvil the caravaner is over there, but he's a sleeper of the Sixth House. The ghoul controlling him is in that cave. His name is Dagoth Fovon. He'll just keep summoning more ash creatures until we destroy the statue inside."

Those words came out so quickly before he even realized he was saying them. He hadn't even thought about it. But now he saw in distant memories the ash ghoul Dagoth Fovon in the damp cave, proboscis protruding from his face, uttering foul incantations over the red statue at the center of the candlelit shrine.

The mysterious hero had been following him, perhaps concerned that he may still faint, but now she stopped a moment and tilted her head at Nils. Because of the goggles and kerchief, he could not see the expression on her face, but he assumed she was at least mildly surprised at the fact he knew this information. He was surprised at himself, truly. He knew it was a result of the link with the Sixth House sleeper, but he didn't expect to be able to recall so much detail.

Selvil the caravaner was still asleep, but breathing. Nils didn't want to nudge him awake because he knew he would attempt to fight him again. There was still something left to be saved inside of this one.

The woman silently handed Nils the ebony dagger.

"Sorry for uhh, for almost hitting you with that. I'm sorry."

She didn't answer, kneeling beside him in front of the silt strider. An aura of blue light circled her hands as she held them gently over the exposed soft flesh.

"I'm Nils. What's your name?" he asked once she was finished with the spell.

This time she raised her goggles to her forehead after removing her kerchief. She looked to be about the same age as Nils, but of course when it came to mer it was difficult to tell. He saw two circular indentations around her eyes from where the goggles had pressed against her skin. She had sharp-set features and inquisitive eyes, flitting around to observe each detail.

"Peakstar of the Urshilaku tribe."

Nils stared at her a moment. He'd heard her name mentioned in all corners of Vvardenfell. Yet she introduced herself with a breezy simplicity as if she were Peakstar the baker and not Peakstar the famous Ashlander hero.

"Are you really the Nerevarine?"

He said this without thinking, and felt a bit foolish immediately after.

"Some say I am," she answered with the same nonchalance. But then she flashed him a wide grin.

"You are not Velothi, yet you have heard of me?"

"A lot of people have heard of you," Nils said. The legends certainly didn't exaggerate her heroism. She was a skilled warrior, agile, tenacious and keen of mind. All of this he could see, and he knew her less than ten minutes. This person would make a far better Nerevarine than Nils. The Empire might think their plan to make _him_ center of that prophecy ridiculous if they had actually seen Peakstar in action.

His thoughts were interrupted when he saw the silt strider stirring, rolling upright. As it began to elongate its legs, raising itself to its regular height, Nils and Peakstar carefully lifted the sleeping caravaner and sat him in the compartment. Nils was relieved that both would be alright.

At least, they would be, if they could destroy Dagoth Fovon in Hassour. Despite the dull pain lingering in his head Nils knew they could not tarry here any longer. With only a nod of acknowledgment to each other he and Peakstar headed towards the dark entrance of the cave together.


	25. Requiem for Hassour

**Hassour.**

Judging by the layout, it looked as though a lava flow had formed the tubular channels of Hassour that Peakstar and Nils were navigating together. The tunnel was just wide enough for them to be able to walk side-by-side, but not much wider.

Keeping up with Peakstar's long strides, Nils was distracted from any other thoughts because of the wretched bells.

The bells... the tune they played was so familiar. Yet there was something different; they were playing it all wrong.

"What is this terrible noise?" Peakstar asked.

Nils did not respond. He did not know if he could make her understand.

This was the Sharmat in music.

Less than an hour ago, Nils heard it differently. Comforting, almost harmonizing. It was the same song, but played here, it sounded a half-step out of tune; still recognizable as the enveloping dream-song in the nightmare dystopia of House Dagoth, yet now that he was awake, lucid, free from that foul thing's corrupting tentacled grasp he heard the horrendous dissonance. Reverberating. Metallic.

To the Sixth House, this was a lullaby of assimilation, an aural coalescence into their collective mind. By listening to this ever-recapitulating refrain their dreams were shared, a nexus of frenzied devotion. And while his brain had been soaked in many of the visions and nightmares of the Sixth House, Nils realized he left behind a simulacrum of his own self, his entire life experience presented to them on a platter, ready for dissection.

The noise was too distracting for him to think. Each thunderous peal, each reverberating note turned his stomach. He wanted it to stop, he wanted it all to stop.

The only way to end the music was to kill Dagoth Fovon.

It was so dark that when they reached the end of the tunnel Nils nearly stumbled over a rock. Feeling in front of him, his hands felt that the dead end was made up of several loose rocks stacked together. The dreamers must have tried to seal off the passage when they knew they were coming. That was smart of them. Peakstar was already kicking at the loose rocks and the wall began to give way. It was all very loud, hearing these stones clattering to the ground and echoing against the cavern walls, but at least it muffled the sound of that agonizing music, for as short that blissful moment was.

 **Hassour, Shrine.**

When Nils crawled through the opening into the wider chamber, his first reaction was to gag from the pungent, inescapable aroma that saturated the air. It was like a pottage of rotten meat, with a nauseating spoiled-fruit sweetness to it. He recognized the scent immediately and coughed into his arm, eyes watering.

There were about six dreamers – all Dunmer, of course - huddled around some unidentifiable fleshy mass, which Nils was willing to guess had something to do with the putrid stench. They turned to look at Nils with glacial faces, but went back to their feast moments later. Vague whispers escaped his comprehension.

At the center of the room was the shrine, a spiky statuette casting shadows against the wall from the red candlelight. He needed to destroy that thing.

In the room he saw the six bells, those six notes that could not be compared to any notes he had heard before; they did not follow any conventional music scale. And there was Dagoth Fovon, the ash ghoul with a proboscis instead of a face, not even turning around to look at him. With a black mallet he struck the bells and send a tremor through the ground. The vibration was strong enough to rattle Nils' teeth.

As soon as Peakstar entered the room, everything changed. Three of the dreamers sprinted towards her. They all wielded clubs, and their attacks were slow and fairly easy to dodge. The fighting became a blur as Peakstar evaded and parried three opponents at once. The song became faster, more frenetic.

Why were they targeting Peakstar and not him? Nils turned to the ash statue. Its three red eyes glowed as the dark aura around it oscillated, pulsating as if it had a heartbeat. When he drew nearer the inaudible whispers grew louder.

Something was different.

The music had stopped. Nils' eyes darted toward the bell instrument, but Dagoth Fovon had vanished.

Two skeletal hands gripped his shoulders. Sharp nails pierced his leather jerkin and cut into his shoulders between the rings of his mail shirt.

" _Why do you resist? We have seen your dreams, outlander. You are more like us than your Imperial handlers. We see you, and we embrace you."_

Nils could hear the ash ghoul's slithering proboscis-mouth behind him. Slow poison made its way through his bloodstream from the wounds in his shoulders; he could feel the pain burning in his veins.

" _Why... why do you resist? You are made of his flesh now."_

"Shut up," Nils spat.

He kicked backwards to hit the creature's shins. Dagoth Fovon loosened his grip somewhat and Nils twisted free. He backed away and drew his longsword.

Peakstar was still engaged with the dreamers. There were a lot more than six of them in the room. The others had merely been hiding. If Nils had to estimate, he would say there were close to twenty of them. They just kept coming at her... but before he could use his sword against the ash ghoul, two dreamers ran out of the darkness to come to Dagoth Fovon's aid. Nils raised his sword in time to block an attack from a chitin club. That would leave a dent. He felt the shock rattle his bones. Nils slashed at its chest, opening a deep gash. It screamed like a normal person would. It almost gave Nils a shock to see that this dreamer bled like him, though he already knew this would happen. He knew that they were still Dunmer, but he could not afford to feel bad about killing them right now. Nils took this opportunity to cast a healing spell on himself, which took away some of the immediate pain from his wounds but did not stop the poison stinging under his skin.

"YOU ARE LIKE WE ONCE WERE. A KEPT ANIMAL. YOU SCREAM FOR EMANCIPATION, AND WE HEAR YOU."

The dreamer screamed this, all the while continuing to fight Nils with a frenzied adrenaline despite his deep wounds that would soon kill him. These were Dagoth Fovon's words spoken through the mouth of the dreamer. Nils knew this, and the words only angered him more. He was having difficulty breathing, for each time he tried to gasp for air his nose and mouth were filled with the odor of rotting flesh and it only made him gag.

If he could get to the ash statue...

Nils broke his stance and ran. The dreamers shuffled after him. He ran to the six-belled instrument and lifted the heavy black mallet. His entire body was stiffening from the poison, but he strained against it. Grunting, clutching the shaft of the hammer with both hands, he bludgeoned a dreamer in front of him. This one was a female with long greasy hair. He heard bones crushing. Probably her ribs.

She crumpled to the ground like a sack of apples.

"I do not fight to kill! That is not what the Master wills! Listen to the solution listen for he is the dawn the rust that corrodes the chain and when you grasp at with your meat hands I do see you are bearing gifts his gifts you bear his flesh bear the master's flesh-" she sputtered, descending into incomprehensibility.

Despite her pleas Nils finished her off by crushing her skull. He felt his face flush and his eyes water. He didn't know if it was because of the putrid smell in the room or because of how pitiful these cultists were. He decided it was both. It was still horrible, no matter how much he reminded himself that there was no other way. There was nothing left to save inside of her. They looked like Dunmer but their souls had lost the very essence that made them different from wild animals. They were little more than vessels now, vessels for Dagoth Ur's master plan. And with this bell hammer he was going to strike a major blow to the Sixth House.

Dagoth Fovon was waving his hands around, as if about to cast a devastating destruction spell. But a green light suddenly surrounded the ash ghoul and he stood there, dumbly, for a few seconds, no sparks or fire leaving his hand. It looked like Peakstar had silenced him with a spell. Nils took this opportunity and raised the hammer, bringing it down on the ash statue with all the strength he had left to muster.

It was almost a shock how easily it shattered. Nils expected this to be a lot harder. As its brittle exterior cracked open, a black, choking mist engulfed the room. He coughed, feeling particles of ash invade his throat. The miasma blackened the room, rendering everyone temporarily blind, but he could hear... crying. Anguish. Terror.

"Where speaks his mythopoeic tones? All is silent and we are lost! Empty and alone I am empty and alone."  
"My lord! Our insides burn! We are dying. This silence, I hate it! I hate this I hate this Lord Dagoth come save us SAVE US SAVE US this nightmare-trick false lies lies lies!"

"Each spoke of the wheel turns in forever but does it begin in reverse if it has no start or end? My bones will feed the Ghostfence and my ancestors will never forgive me."

"Who will save us now? Is the star-wound's fire extinguished? The bones of our ancestors defiled stolen by lying prophets in golden masks."

When the ash cloud dissipated, Nils saw them all contorted into pathetic positions. Some were lying prostrate, others were huddled in fetal position, while a few were banging their heads repeatedly against the walls or scratching at their own faces, as if trying to claw their own eyes out. Dagoth Fovon himself stood motionless, though Nils knew the ghoul had more clarity than they did. He had been the leader of this operation, after all. As the emaciated creature lunged forward, Nils only had the hammer to raise in self-defense. But the poison in his veins made his arms and legs feel like lead, slowing his movements to a mudcrab's pace. And then, a figure darted through the darkness and strong hands pushed him out of the way. Shoved against a cave wall, Nils watched Peakstar take a lightning spell for him. Her body shivered visibly from the shock, but she recovered long enough to drive her spear into Dagoth Fovon's heart.

A necklace shaped like an eye sat atop the pile of ash salts left by the ghoul.

Nils' vision turned to stars. His legs started to buckle from under him and he clutched the wall again.

"I've been poisoned," Nils gasped, lowering himself to the ground and closing his eyes. He felt very ill, and behind his eyelids his mind created swirling images.

And then there was a blue light, and Nils felt the toxicity purged from his body. It was remarkable, this feeling, as if the purest energy were entering him, cleansing all of the foul things in his blood. After she helped him to his feet yet again, Peakstar cast a healing spell on herself.

"Thank you," he said.

Peakstar only nodded. They were not finished here.

The dreamers of the Sixth House were still sobbing, vocalizing their madness into cryptic words.

Without hesitating, Peakstar walked to one that was lying with its hands clasped together in desperate prayer, and plunged her spear into its back. It writhed in pain a moment and then fell still as she twisted her spear deeper.

Nils understood this. He understood it but it still felt terrible. They looked so helpless now, like lost children... and yet, a quick death was the only merciful thing they could do for the dreamers. He trudged towards one banging their face on the wall, moaning in anguish. Nils grabbed their skinny arms, forced their body around to face him. A youthful-faced male with the awkwardly long limbs of late adolescence. He spat in Nils' face, but remained passive, not even struggling against Nils' grasp.

"Away! Betrayer! This pain you have caused! The road leads nowhere. All is over. The silence will consume you too, as time's moth-bitten fabric –"

Nils cut open the boy's throat open with his dagger and shoved him to the ground. This was messy. Nils choked on the lump in his own throat. His face was tingling. Was he crying? Gods, yes, he was crying. Lost children. They were all like lost children. But he knew this had to be done. He knew this as well as Peakstar. There was nothing left in these half-naked, miserable flesh-eating creatures to be saved.

"Do you remember my mother? Have you seen her bones? I tasted her blood but I cannot remember her face – did I kill her? Were those my hands? I would slay her again if you would come back! The things I have done in your name, Lord Dagoth, is it all for naught?"

This one Nils silenced too. They had all been people, ordinary folk. With lives and personalities and people they cared about. And now Dagoth Ur had taken all of that away from them. He remembered Selvil the caravaner. Thankfully he had not yet passed the horizon of madness. But it could have been a matter of weeks or even days before Selvil finally succumbed to the dreams. Nils should have been happy that he had been able to save him, and probably several others in Balmora. But there wasn't anything happy about what he was doing now.

He killed a third dreamer, feeling his heart tightening in his chest.

Then, when he thrust his sword into the body of another dreamer, there was no movement, and Nils realized he was stabbing a corpse. He moved on to the next one. Killing them had already become a methodical thing.

He did not even feel relieved when all of the voices were silenced and it was time to leave that place. He didn't feel anything. Didn't want to feel anything.

 **Ascadian Isles Region.  
** At least Selvil and his beloved silt strider were looking better. He had regained consciousness and was busy fixing up her passenger compartment, but when Nils and Peakstar exited the cave he coaxed her into lowering him to the ground.

"You... oh, Almsivi be damned, I can't believe what I'd done, sera. Is it over? Please tell me the dreams will stop."

Nils was trying to think of something to say to Selvil, but Peakstar spoke for him.

"We have defeated Dagoth Fovon, and his influence will haunt you no longer. Yet this fight will not be over until Dagoth Ur is defeated beneath Red Mountain."

Selvil blinked at her.

"I don't remember you. What is your name, muthsera?"

"Peakstar of the Urshilaku tribe."

Selvil's eyes widened. He shook his head so violently that Nils wondered if it would fly off his neck.

"You're the one... no! I can't be seen with you. Why would you even _tell_ me – argh! You're either very brave or very foolish, Peakstar. Don't you know you've got a price on your head? You're hunted by the _Temple._ They want you dead. I – I can't be seen with you here. Here's my gold – take it, sera, _take it."_

He thrust his palm full of coins at Nils' face, but he didn't take any of it. He was just confused. The caravaner grunted and tossed the coins at the ground.

"Just _take_ it, sera. This is what you paid me for passage to Vivec. I can't take you anywhere, can't risk it, you've been seen with her too, I won't get snatched for this. I'm sorry, sera. Vivec is southeast of here, you're halfway there!"

Nils scrambled to pick up the coins to return to the caravaner, but by then he was already cantering away on his massive silt strider.

He was feeling pretty bad about keeping these coins, since the caravaner was probably going to take the rest of the day off after all of this, and he needed every last septim just to make ends meet.

"Why _do_ you give out your real name if everyone knows who you are?"

"The truth is revealed in their faces. It lets me see if they can be trusted."

"And if they cannot be trusted?"

"I run fast."

Nils shook his head and threw his hands up in resignation. He understood now why she had smiled so widely after she had told him who she was. Apparently she had judged him as someone to be trusted. Perhaps she would change her mind if she knew whose orders he was following.

The faces of the dreamers in the cave still invaded his thoughts. The gangly youth with his throat wide open. The one who confessed to killing his own mother. Nils knew they had no life left to live but a life of suffering and emptiness, but they hadn't fought back, they just sat there helplessly, awaiting death...

"You are going to Vivec City?"

Nils nodded slowly at her words. Peakstar whistled. The guar they had left behind happily trotted towards her. She gently rubbed its scaly head in the area between its wide-set eyes and pressed her face against its side and whispered to it. The guar seemed pretty happy, though their long mouths always seemed to be curved into a smile. Nils noticed the bedroll, rolled up and tied to its saddle. Attached to each side was a saddlebag. Peakstar looked like she was carrying all of her belongings with her, and this was probably true.

"What do you know about the city?" she asked him. By now they were making their way up out of the foyada. Peakstar did not mount the guar, but she coaxed it along with its reins, making a clicking sound with her tongue.

"Not too much, to tell you the truth. I've never been there myself. I passed by while aboard a ship. It's enormous. There's this meteor hanging above the entire city-"

"Lie Rock," Peakstar muttered.

"How did it get there? _Why_ is it there?"

"It has been there since the city's beginning. I do not know how it came to be, but if Vivec has the powers of a god, why does he not send the rock back from where it came? Or simply destroy it?"

Nils thought about that in silence. Fear? That was the only answer he could think of to her question. The Ordinators certainly seemed to enjoy striking terror into people's hearts. And Vivec was the one who controlled them.

Now they were back on the path. He picked a comberry leaf and began to chew on it. Even the sharp bitter taste couldn't rid him of that overpowering odor. It was in his hair, his clothes, everything smelled like death.

The late afternoon sun left an orange glow around everything. In the distance Nils could see its bright sparkling against a body of water.

Nils and Peakstar pointed to the lake at the same time, clearly having the same idea, and then turned to each other and laughed. It felt good to smile again.

 **Lake Amaya.**

Facing away from the lake, Nils had his jerkin and hauberk laid out in front of him. He kept running a finger over the chainmail rings, scrutinizing it for the third time without actually knowing what he was looking for anymore.

"What are you doing?" came the female voice behind him.

Nils did not turn around, though he did hear her splashing about back there.

"Examining my armor. You know, to see if it's damaged," Nils replied.

Peakstar laughed.

"You settled people are strange," she said.

Nils scowled. She expected him to join her in the lake, though preserving her modesty had been his primary concern. Clearly her tribe did not have the same ideas of decency as the "settled people" did. Yet he didn't feel like waiting any longer. After that battle in the cave, he felt disgusting on many different levels, and he wanted more than anything to feel clean.

Leaving his clothes at the sandy shore, Nils stepped into the waters. It was surprisingly warm, almost like a hot spring. Actually, it probably was a hot spring, with how close they were to an active volcano. If the Imperials knew about this lake, they'd probably try to build a bath house on top of it and charge a fee for people to use it.

The shallows became deep very quickly, and Nils found himself treading water. Taking a deep breath, he submerged himself underwater, allowing the lake to envelop his body completely. The warmth swaddled him and it was close to paradise. He hugged his knees to his chest and was a child again. Safe, warm. Calm. All noises were drowned out by the water rippling in his ears. He floated there a while, wishing he could spend eternity suspended in the heated lake, but all too soon his lungs cried for air and he swam back to the surface.

Now everything smelled faintly of sulfur. At least it was better than dead, rotting things.

A docile betty netch floated idly by, her hanging tentacles just barely above the water. She was close enough that he could hear her airy respiration as her translucent blue jelly sac pulsated in and out. Even in the wild, they had a peaceful disposition unless provoked. The life of a netch did not seem too bad. They always looked so serene.

Peakstar swam to meet him.

Nils turned his eyes away from the netch to look at her. This was the first time he had seen the Ashlander warrior without her cap. Her hair was a dark red, almost maroon. Now it hung in wet clumps over her gray shoulders.

She gave him a soft, understanding smile. He could not find it in him to return it.

"Peakstar... what we did back there... are you certain we did the right thing?"

Peakstar's smile faded at this sudden question. Her eyes grew distant.

"It is not about right or wrong. Good, bad, these concepts mean nothing to the Sixth House. We did what was necessary. It may not feel 'right.' But we did what had to be done."

"I know. I know that. I just..."

"Do not mourn them; they have reached a greater peace. They are called dreamers because there is nothing left for them in the waking world."

"It's not that. I..." he trailed off. He didn't know how to say it.

"You see their faces."

So blunt and straightforward. Nils could only nod. His body tensed and he looked away. Gods, he hoped he wasn't going to cry again. Luckily he didn't. Suddenly, he felt arms wrapping around his shoulders, and Peakstar was embracing him. At first, he did not know what to do. His body tensed and became rigid at first, but then he wrapped one arm around her neck and shoulders and the other arm around her back. They still had to keep moving to stay afloat, but this was nice. She was alive and lovely and warm and breathing, and after having to deal with so many dead things, Nils appreciated this.

"I see the faces too," she confessed in a whisper. "Faces from many years past. When I'm alone."

When she was alone. That must be quite a lot, judging by her fugitive status. Morbidly, he began to wonder if she had killed more people than he. It was not as though he were a stranger to using lethal force. During his time as a town guard, when a criminal resisted arrest, sometimes there would be no other way to immediately neutralize an active threat to public safety. He did remember their faces, and he would feel wretched about it and remember it long after, but he'd always been comforted by the thought that it was justified, that it was all part of his job to keep the peace and uphold the law. What they did today in Hassour felt cruel, unlawful even. Even if it may have been necessary. When the dreamers had no hope of rehabilitation. It still was not a pleasant thing at all.

Peakstar's words weren't exactly comforting. The knowledge that even she could not forget the faces of the people she'd killed, well... if the supposed Nerevarine was telling him this, that did not bode well for his own ability to cope. Yet it made him see another side of her, a rare thing that made her seem more like a person he could relate to, and less of an infallible hero. She had moved her arms down to his back and was treading water for the both of them now. Nils just closed his eyes and reflected upon this moment. It felt as if Peakstar needed this embrace just as much as he did. He did not know how she managed. To shoulder the burden of an ancient prophecy, and to do it all alone...

The life of a hero seemed a lonely existence indeed.

Still... they were here, together, holding each other while floating in the waters of Lake Amaya. And Nils didn't feel lonely at all right now. Maybe, in this moment, Peakstar did not feel alone either.


	26. Apex Incandescent

**Ascadian Isles.**

"The Temple's after your head, right? And Vivec is _the_ Temple city. What exactly is it that you're looking for in Vivec?"

It'd taken Nils a while to muster the courage to ask Peakstar that question, but it had been on his mind the entire time as they continued along the mossy road towards Vivec. It was a pleasant enough day, so he didn't really mind. Dragonflies buzzed over the placid water, flitting between the flowering water lilies.

"Books," Peakstar answered simply. Walking along the edge of the lake she picked up a flat stone and threw it at the algae-green water. It skipped eight times, ripples fanning out from the points where the rock bounced.

Nils was admittedly relieved by her response. Books. When he thought about what Peakstar could possibly be planning to do in a city crawling with Ordinators, his mind had been running wild with speculation, images of Peakstar attempting all sorts of illegal and dangerous things, including assassinating the Archcanon and inciting a revolution against Temple authority. He wouldn't be the one to judge her if she wanted vengeance after he had seen firsthand the way the Ordinators treated her people, but there was no way he would allow himself to be implicated in a disastrous mess like that.

Books. That sounded safe enough. J'zhirr told him about an acquaintance of his, a Khajiit with the Twin Lamps who sold rare books in Vivec's foreign quarter. Apparently anyone with the Twin Lamps was Nils' friend now, as he had noticed in Balmora.

"What kind of books were you looking for? I've never frequented their shop myself, but I've a contact in Vivec who might be able to help you. Or maybe I could help you out even more. Given your fugitive status, and the incredible risk you would be taking simply setting foot in Vivec, I would be willing to retrieve..." Nils trailed off when he looked at Peakstar. She was still fully armored in her boiled netch leathers. Typical Ashlander garb. And with the spear on her back, she _looked_ very much like an Ashlander. That wasn't going to go over well in Vivec.

"Actually... let's forget about the books for now. Let's talk about the problem with your appearance."

Peakstar frowned.

"What is wrong with how I look?"

"No!" Nils said, the heat of embarrassment rising to his face at the notion he had just implied she was unattractive. "Nothing's wrong with how you _look_. You're quite lovely, really. Uh... I'm talking about your armor. What do you have to wear besides... _that?"_

Peakstar seemed far more offended at the perceived criticism of her armor than of her looks.

"I made it myself. I cannot move comfortably in the suits with metal plates that your people wear," she said, her distaste for such armor apparent.

Nils wasn't certain who she was talking about when she said 'your people,' but maybe she just assumed all non-Ashlanders were a homogenous group.

"Your armor is well-fitted and the craftsmanship is excellent. But... it makes you look like an Ashlander."

"Velothi."

"Velothi, my apologies. But that's what the Ordinators are looking for. A couple weeks ago a friend and I were traveling in the Grazelands. We were stopped..."

Nils looked up at the sky and squinted at the sun. That day was still fresh in his memory. All of that carnage, just to get to Peakstar.

"We were stopped," he continued after this pause. "by a pair of Ordinators. They asked if we'd seen any red-haired female Velothi around. My friend, she... said something to upset them, and they broke her fingers. All ten of them, one at a time. Just like that."

Peakstar's brow furrowed.

"Your friend was hurt because of me?" she asked.

"Not – not directly. I mean, it's not like she was trying to protect you. She didn't even _know_ you. Zaryth just told them they weren't authorized to conduct an investigation in that area, and... yeah."

Peakstar had her finger on her lip in contemplation. It still seemed to disturb her, this knowledge.

Nils paused before continuing the story. The rest might be difficult for her to hear, but he felt he had to tell her.

"We passed a camp – a small Velothi camp – and every single person there had been murdered by the Ordinators. For no reason. They just wanted to send a message to anyone who would defy their 'divine authority.'"

Now, Peakstar looked visibly ill. She stopped walking, and grabbed the stalk of a nearby mushroom tree.

"Which tribe was this?" she asked. Her voice had become quiet.

"I don't know. It was in the Grazelands. A small group, maybe ten, eleven people."

Peakstar nodded mechanically.

"A hunting party. Maybe from the Ahemmusa, or... Zainab," she said dully to herself.

"Yes. They killed all of them, because they wanted to get at _you._ Vivec City is _crawling_ with people who would do just that – worse, even – to you. That's why you can't go around looking like a Velothi."

He stopped himself when he saw how distant her eyes were. He let her speak.

"The Ordinators are so wasteful. They kill because they can. As long as there are people alive speaking out against the Temple, the Temple will try to silence them. This has always been known. But... now I'm the one responsible, I am keeping the prophecy alive... people dying... all my fault..." she whispered, her face still blank and indecipherable.

Placing a tentative hand on her shoulder, Nils gently turned her around so that she was facing him.

"Peakstar... when I first heard about you, I heard a story about how you saved an entire village in the Ashlands from starvation when you purged the blight from an eggmine. There are so many people who are _alive_ because of you... _I'm_ alive because of you."

She looked down at their boots. Nils followed her gaze.

"I only do what I feel is the right thing to do. I know people die everywhere, every minute of every hour; it is the natural order, and this is not going to change. But... that people are dying for _me..._ I was not the first to proclaim myself Nerevarine. It is a legend that every Velothi holds close to their heart, even if they will not admit it to strangers. But what if I fail? What if all these deaths are meaningless? What if I am not the one? Perhaps I've never done the right thing after all." Her voice was glassy with fragile uncertainty.

She was always so genuine about everything. Here, she expressed herself so simply, these feelings of doubt coaxed out of her heart just because Nils was standing there to listen. He sighed, struggling to figure out the right words to say to her.

"You shouldn't blame yourself. Even if you – well, I don't know if you are the Nerevarine or not. What do I know? I'm not exactly qualified to have an opinion on that matter; I grew up in Cyrodiil. The prophecies don't mean anything at all to me, no more than some Khajiiti bedtime story about Rajhin the Thief might. But... for what it's worth, I feel very lucky to have met you, and that you speak to me as Peakstar of the Urshilaku, and not as the ancient hero Nerevar Indoril reborn. You are Peakstar, and Peakstar is a good person. I couldn't care less about the rest."

Peakstar's eyes fixed on his. It was difficult to escape the acuity of her gaze.

There passed a long, peaceful silence of mutual understanding.

But Nils eventually broke away from her. Right now he was wondering if they should get off the main road or something, for the closer they were to Vivec, the greater chance there was that there would be an Ordinator or two patrolling the streets.

"Why don't we stop by Seyda Neen? It's not too far west of here. You can buy some new clothes to wear, and let Mops carry your armor," he suggested.

At hearing his name, Peakstar's guar looked around expectantly for about five seconds before he went back to eating the pink wildflowers on the side of the road.

"Buy?" she asked vaguely, as if that concept were absolutely foreign to her.

"Yes. With gold. Do you have gold?"

Peakstar sighed impatiently.

"Why would I need Imperial money?"

"To... buy things?"

"Yes. If I needed something from your shops. I have never had need for Imperial gold before. I hunt for food, and I am able to make almost everything I need. The things I cannot make, I barter for. The older people in my tribe trade in gold with foreigners for the things they need, but it is because they do not wish to be a burden for the rest of us. This we forgive. But I cannot buy these clothes you say I need. Will your merchants barter for other goods?" Peakstar started to rummage through her pack as if looking for suitable items to trade.

"It's fine. I can cover the cost. Just promise me you'll wear them."

"If you say I should. You know the settled people better than I."

"I'm still an outlander," Nils admitted, scratching the back of his head. She acted like he was some kind of expert on every other group in Morrowind.

Peakstar smiled at this.

"To the Velothi, everyone who isn't one of us is an outlander."

 **Seyda Neen.**

Seyda Neen. Nils remembered Seyda Neen. He remembered when he'd gotten off that boat from the Imperial City, confused and disoriented, and they shoved a small package at him and saw him off. Months later, Nils was still confused about his purpose here. Using him to exploit the ancient legend of Nerevar Indoril seemed such a bizarre and convoluted plot. But Peakstar... maybe she was the Nerevarine, maybe she wasn't, but she was more of a hero than he ever could be. And if Nils could do something to prevent her from getting her skull bashed in by the ebony mace of righteousness, well, that would be a good thing.

This swampy backwater town was only worth its mark on the maps for one thing: the Census and Excise Office. Where he'd been processed months ago. Two stoic Imperial guards were on patrol. They narrowed their eyes as Peakstar and Nils walked past, as they would to any strangers, but Nils was just glad they didn't recognize him.

Peakstar had a lot of things to say about Seyda Neen. It was a comparatively small settlement, but other than small villages in the Ashlands, she didn't visit the inhabited parts of Vvardenfell very often.

"Do they always wear purple skirts?" she asked, pointing at the Imperial who looked straight ahead, pretending not to notice.

"Not always," Nils answered, guiding her away from the annoyed guard. "Rank is denoted by the color of the skirt. Recruits in training are given gray skirts, rank-and-file legionnaires like the guards here wear that deep majestic purple you see before you, drillmasters wear black, officers – legates, captains, what have you, they wear pleated skirts with blue and pink stripes."

"Is this the truth?"

Nils shook his head, laughing.

"No. I know your people don't think much of the Empire, but come on. Pink and blue, really? That sounds hideous."

Peakstar made an odd snorting sound, as if she were trying to giggle and scoff at the same time. Then she went back to pointing out everything that interested her. She wanted to know why the facades of the houses were so white, what measures were taken to prevent the buildings from sinking into the swamp, and how they procured and carried all the stones to build the lighthouse. There were a few questions a bit more difficult for him to answer, like why the native Dunmer were slumming it up in the dingy shacks while foreigners kept those nice houses with brick chimneys and white facades, and what the Excise office was really doing with all the tax money they collected. Despite that somber reminder of why the Dunmer had every right to be bitter towards the Empire, it was a mostly painless journey, and Peakstar put away her leather armor for a lace-up blouse and woven skirt. Together, they looked to be a bourgeois Hlaalu couple with a pack guar. Even with Nils' mixed heritage it was growing more common to see members of House Hlaalu pairing with foreigners, so he did not foresee anyone giving them much trouble.

Though people still called him outlander, at least they were beginning to treat him like less of an Imperial _n'wah_ and more like a Dunmer. Despite the strings the Blades had tied to his back, Nils was beginning to _feel_ more like a Dunmer in these last three months than he ever had in his entire life. He hoped that was a good thing.

 **Bitter Coast Region.**

"Nils. What reason do _you_ have to visit Vivec?"

Peakstar had given Nils an answer. He supposed it was only fair that he returned the favor. How much he was going to tell her was another story. She would hate him if she knew all of the truth... wouldn't she?

"The truth is... I'm an agent of a secret group of abolitionists –"

"Of what?"

"Abolitionists. You know. People who believe slavery is wrong. We try not to kill anyone over it, but..."

Another dead face forced its way back into his thoughts. He'd stabbed Dravos Omaren in the eye, hadn't he? It all seemed so surreal. J'zhirr was about to be beaten to death, mistaken for a disobedient slave. At the time, Nils felt it was the right thing to do. Omaren was a cruel Dunmer who deserved justice for the torment he inflicted on others. And yet...

"I know a lot of Dunmer are fiercely traditionalist, and the situation with the Imperial occupation is less than ideal, and erm..." he added quickly, admittedly unsure what Peakstar's thoughts on the matter were.

There was a beat of silence. Their boots squished against the swampy terrain.

Finally, Peakstar took a deep breath and spoke.

"Do not judge them too harshly for their ways. When the foreigners took the land, we were still able to cling to our ancient traditions. For many, who we are, how we live, this is all we have left. The Urshilaku do not keep slaves. It is a cruel, shameful thing. We treat our animals with more respect than the plantation owners have for their slaves. But I do understand their anger. They would tell us the Dunmer are enslaved by-"

Peakstar's commentary was abruptly cut off by a piercing scream from up above...

" _AURRRGWHEEEE heheho! EEYYYOEE!"_

Nils' first thought was a wounded alit that had somehow made its way into the sky, for he'd never heard man or mer make a sound like that. Squinting at the sun, he couldn't quite make out what that figure was. But whoever or whatever they were, they were higher up in the sky than he saw cliff racers fly. And coming down _very_ fast. For a moment, Nils considered running a safe distance away, so that the unfortunate person's innards would not splatter all over him upon impact with the ground.

Peakstar was already running, but not away. She tossed both hands in the air and shot a bolt of violet magic directly upwards.

Slowfall. Quick thinking, that. Nils saw the figure descending was a male Bosmer, wearing teal robes with gold trim. Some kind of fancy mage, falling from higher than the White-Gold Tower? Right now, this situation was just too bizarre for Nils to make any assumptions about this Bosmer or the circumstances of his fall.

Nils noticed a book and a fur hat in the muddy ground nearby. He reached to pick up the hat, brushing some of the dirt off with his fingers. Just by the distinctly yellow color and conical shape he knew it to be Colovian. Rather expensive hat to leave behind in the mud like that. Peakstar grabbed the book and the two of them followed the growing shadow of the mage in the sky.

When the Bosmer's feet touched the ground, he stayed in place a long moment, eyes wide in shock. He was short, about two heads shorter than Peakstar. His straw-colored beard fanned out like the wide bristles of a broom. Pale, dainty little hands trembled as he clutched a bundle of scrolls to his chest.

Perhaps an entire minute passed before anyone said anything. Silence all around except the bubbling swamp noises.

"What..." attempted Peakstar. "was _that?"_

The Bosmer made some fussy unintelligible murmurings before he looked down at his shoes.

"I don't want to talk about it," he hissed, sounding much like a sulking child caught stealing from the larder.

"What's that you're holding?" she continued to prod.

When she took a step towards him, the Bosmer scowled and clasped the scrolls even tighter, whirling around so that none of them could see.

Nils crossed his arms and frowned.

"She just saved your life, you know," he said.

But Peakstar was already grabbing the mage's arms and forcing them apart. The bundle of scrolls fell to the ground. Nils reached down to pick them up. There were three scrolls in total, with the bands on them reading _Icarian Flight_.

"You – you're bullies, just like everyone else – think you can pick on me, just because I'm _smaller_ than you? Well... I'm – I'm not going to take it!" the mage sputtered. Peakstar had let him go and he was jumping up to get at the scrolls that Nils carried, but he just held them up higher. He seemed a sorry excuse for a mage. Didn't even try to use any spells to retrieve the scrolls.

"Sorry. I'm keeping these for your own safety," Nils said. This whole ordeal was so ridiculous, he was trying hard not to smile. But he kept his voice stern. "Go on, now. Get out of here before I decide to report you to the guards for being a nuisance."

"Can you even arrest someone over that? Why, I ought to report _you_ for theft!" the Bosmer threatened, balling his little hands into fists as though he were going to fight them.

Wisely, the mage decided against that, and stepped back. He turned his nose up in the air and strode off in the direction of Seyda Neen, tripping over the bottom of his robes along the way. He wildly looked in all directions as if to confirm that no one had seen him almost fall, but continued along his way back to town.

Was he going to report them to the guards? Who knew. Whether or not the guards even _cared_ was a better question to ask.

Peakstar was still holding the book. Nils still had the hat, he realized. It was a perfectly fine hat, but Nils only ever saw ladies wearing the soft yellow Colovian fur.

"What's the book say?" he asked Peakstar. She stared at the cover, not saying anything. Her lips parted, moving slowly as if silently sounding out syllables to herself. But she just shook her head and held the book out expectantly to Nils.

And then he realized something.

"Peakstar..." he started, as gently as he could so as not to embarrass her. "Can you read?"

"In my tribe, most of us do not. Our stories are passed down through the spoken word."

She spoke with no trace of shame in her voice. Obviously Nils was in no place to judge her, as she came from a different culture with different values, but there was something about this that didn't make sense at all.

"You're going to Vivec for _books_ that you can't even _read?"_ he asked, staring at her incredulously. "How – what could you possibly want with some books – how do you even know what books to look for if you can't even read the titles?"

"These books, they're not for me. I... cannot speak of it too much right now. These are not my secrets to tell."

"Yes, yes, of course," Nils said vaguely, not sure how to wrap his head around all of this. Secret books? What _was_ she up to? Apparently looking for books in Vivec City was not as benign a thing as he'd originally assumed.

"What _does_ the book say?" Peakstar asked him after a thoughtful pause.

"Let's see..." Nils set the scrolls aside and took the book from her hands, looking over the title, which was carefully hand-printed in neat block lettering. He laughed out loud as soon as he read it. "Journal of Tarhiel... _really_? Who even _writes_ that on the cover of their own journal?"

Peakstar shrugged.

"Oh, well. By the way, you should cover your hair with this. I know the guards know what your hair looks like." Nils tossed the hat at her. She caught it in one hand, examining it at an arm's length.

"This... if I wear this, I will look ridiculous," she said, not seeming very enthusiastic about it.

"Funny you say that. In Cyrodiil, you would look like a very fashionable lady wearing that," Nils replied cheerfully.

"Yes. In Cyrodiil, it is also fashionable for men to wear purple skirts."

She already started walking. Nils had to take several long strides to catch up with her.

"What did you say earlier? That I knew the, erm, settled people better than you? I can't force you to wear it, but I strongly suggest that you do."

Peakstar was still staring at the hat.

"Don't make me start reading from Tarhiel's journal," he warned.

That was enough to make Peakstar stop in her tracks. She turned, tilted her head.

The look on her face was not disgust but curiosity. When he thumbed through the first pages of the journal she even peered over his shoulder. On a whim, Nils began to read out loud to her.

" ** _29 Rain's Hand. The mark of a TRUE mage is innovation! Mustering up the mettle to try something new! Ranis Athrys, that prudish, painfully provincial, iceberg-hearted shrew who unfortunately happens to be steward of Balmora's chapter of the Mages Guild clearly does not possess said mettle. Perhaps if she weren't so busy chasing after nonexistent Telvanni spies_ -" **

Nils stopped reading a moment, hardly able to keep a straight face.

"Argh, the entire thing is like this, he's just going on about the people he doesn't like. Are you sure you want me to read this nonsense?"

Peakstar answered with a quick nod. She had on a stony expression. That was odd that she wasn't about to burst into tear-filled laughter right about now. This journal was actually pretty funny.

He did feel a little weird about reading it. Maybe he should have felt bad about making fun of this person he hardly even knew. Nils himself wouldn't be too pleased if a couple strangers found his journal and had a good laugh at it. Still, if this little journal would be helping Peakstar with her literacy (assuming the juvenile quality of the writing did not end up worsening her grasp of the written word), then perhaps it was alright to knock a haughty mage down a peg. Or two.

Nils continued from the sentence where he left off.

" _ **Perhaps if she weren't so busy chasing after nonexistent Telvanni spies, she may not have turned her sharp beak-nose up so fast when I attempted to explicate my theories. Creating a prototype of my design for a slow diffuser would be a waste of guild resources?! What a farcinal**_ – by the way, Peakstar, that word does not exist; he meant to write 'farcical' – _ **declaration coming from someone who feeds her personal vendetta by sanctioning crucibles**_ _–_ here I believe he meant 'crusades' but I am not certain – _**against these imaginary 'spies.' What does this do to help the guild? Other than waste GUILD RESOURCES that might have funded a productive, INNOVATIVE project such as my own, all she has accomplished here is help proliferate paranoia and sow distrust amongst our own. Why, the other day I was approached by some Imperial no-name new recruit who demanded to see my credentials! Me, a Telvanni spy! How absurd! Ajira told me that when Ranis was a little girl her parents were murdered by some Telvanni Archmagistratum**_ – no, wait that's not right, he crossed out 'Archmagister' and wrote that nonsense word instead, but he was correct the first time with Archmagister – _**but that was probably over a hundred years ago and one would assume she'd have grown up and moved on since then. When I was a boy living in Leyawiin I found a sickly foal, rejected by her mother, that I nursed back to health. Yes, I, Tarhiel, because of my own selfless actions could have watched this foal grow into a majestical**_ – gods, he meant 'majestic' – _ **horse were it not for our Argonian neighbors that decided to steal Duchess, skin the poor thing, and turn her into their supper! But did I decide to seek vengeance against the entire Argonian race? By Azura, of course not! Ranis is a bitter, narrow-minded woman-child with far too much hate in her ash-colored heart to know anything about running a guild whose purpose I MIGHT ADD is to combat HER kind of ignorance. The guild needs someone with my erudition, my humility, my insight leading the flock! I will need to prepare my exact words in a script to tell her the truth, carefully memorize each scathing remark so I don't get choked by my own nerves, and perhaps she will step aside and let a genius with REAL talent take over. I can already hear the cries of approval from my colleagues when I tell that gray-skinned, humorless she-ghoul what everyone else has been thinking the entire time!"**_

Nils had to take several deep breaths by the end of that. It was hilarious, and a little sad at the same time. That Bosmer clearly needed help.

Even Peakstar was cracking up. That was from one entry. Just _one_ day's entry, out of the entire book. This goldmine ought to keep them shamelessly entertained for a while.

"I have heard of – of this Mages Guild, yes. Are they, your, ahaha, your Mages – are they all like this... person?" asked Peakstar, her question sounding sincere despite the laughter cutting between her words.

"No, not at all. Well, hopefully not. I haven't visited a guild hall in six years. Who knows what kinds of... _crucibles_ they are sanctioning now? Ahaha."

Nils put the journal away in a bag and stretched his arms out, clasping his hands behind his head. He supposed their little diversion was over and it was time to walk again.

"So... are you beginning to regret saving his life?" he teased. Their pace was slow and meandering. They both had been walking for quite a while, but Nils was hoping they would reach Vivec by nightfall.

"No." Peakstar gazed up at the evening sky, as if expecting to see another Bosmer mage tumbling out from above the clouds. She gave a halfway sort of smile to Nils. "I only regret that we were far too kind to him."

Nils stared.

"That... ahh, that sounds a bit ominous," he admitted.

Peakstar laughed again.

"Nothing like that. There are harsh lessons that he must learn, but I can only hope he was humbled enough by his experience today."

"I doubt that. He's probably writing in a new journal by now about how he was victimized by two savage gray-skinned peasants," Nils said drolly.

"Maybe. I hope he will be alright."

"Yeah. Me too."


	27. High Fane Revelry

**Vivec, Foreign Quarter.**

Vivec. The spiritual capital of Vvardenfell, as far as the Tribunal Temple was concerned. A holy city of great importance to the Dunmer, and an architectural masterpiece that left Nils without adequate words to describe it.

A bustling metropolis made up of stepped pyramids rose out of the water, revealing a maze of brown stone and colorful fabric banners at every turn, merchants hawking fabrics, spice, enchanting supplies, pottery. High stone bridges linked each floating canton together, with aqueducts running below the bridges. All the noise, the crowds; for an ancient city, there was so much _life_ at every turn.

A city of disorienting beauty, one that could not have been created without divine assistance.

With the death-mask Ordinators patrolling, incense glowing at shrines to the saints, the thoroughfare illuminated by the glow of thousands of pilgrim's lanterns, Nils imagined this was something of a microcosm of Morrowind's bygone days, that ineffable, mysterious era when the Tribunal ruled unhindered by Imperial colonization.

And this relic of a city was colossal.

Each of the nine floating cantons were like cities on their own.

Nils and Peakstar arrived in the Foreign Quarter, which was a three-tiered canton about the size of Ebonheart. At one point this had been the only precinct open to outlanders. Obviously the signing of the Armistice invalidated that rule. How else could the Empire send out their tax agents?

Walking down the middle tier of the Foreign Quarter, Nils thought about how clean the streets were. _Everything_ was clean. Even the people looked clean. There were no emaciated beggars sleeping outside, no putrid stench that forced one to bury their nose in their handkerchief.

Peakstar looked more wonder-struck than he did. Her eyes flickered about, drinking in everything. He saw her keep her head down whenever an Ordinator tromped by with bonemold boots, but when they passed her eyes returned to feasting on the visual equivalent of a multi-tiered marzipan cake.

That backwater swamp town Seyda Neen had been the largest settlement Peakstar had visited. Of course she'd be impressed.

"What do you think?" Nils asked. He really just wanted to make sure she wasn't too overwhelmed by the situation. Even he had been taken aback by all the sights, and he had strolled the streets of the grand Imperial City, the seat of the Septim Empire.

She had no words to answer him.

"Are you alright?" he continued, a little concerned by her silence. He wondered if it would've been a better idea for her to stay outside the city. Certainly would've been safer, especially when she was wanted dead or alive here.

"Big," the Ashlander managed to say, finally responding to Nils' first inquiry. "It's... there's so many people."

"We ought to head to St. Delyn first. It's in a residential area. It'll be less crowded," he assured her, though he honestly didn't know. He preferred getting his own business out of the way first. He still wasn't certain what Peakstar's potentially illegal plans entailed, but he wanted to make sure he did what he needed to do before he was banned from the city for stealing 'secret' books.

The only problem was that Nils didn't have a map. He had no idea how to _get_ to St. Delyn. This was the kind of city that one could get lost for _days_ in.

However, his aimless wandering thankfully only lasted minutes, for a booming female voice down below piqued his ears.

"Gondola leaves in one minute!"

Nils rushed down the stairs leading to the canals, taking two steps at a time. He turned back to ensure that Peakstar was still scurrying after, hopefully having the same idea he was. Or maybe she was just following numbly after him so that she wouldn't get lost. The entire situation seemed to be confounding to her, and Nils couldn't blame her.

The robust, leathery-skinned gondolier wore a conical straw hat and a dirty shirt cut off at the shoulders.

"Excuse me, muthsera. What is your destination?" Nils inquired.

"We make all the stops, sera, from here to the Temple canton," the Dunmer answered simply. "But I'm about to leave, so if you're coming, get in now."

"What is the going fare?" He pulled out his coin purse.

The gondolier paused, blinked at him with a half-annoyed, half-repulsed expression on her face as if she'd drunk soured milk.

" _You_ pay nothing, outlander. The city pays for the gondola service."

"Oh. Well, that's nice."

Peakstar was already climbing into the gondola before Nils. He managed to squeeze himself between her and a surly-looking Orsimer fellow. Their shoulders were all touching and Nils wondered if there were only meant to be two passengers at a time, but aside from a single grunt from the Orc he heard no complaints.

A lantern was hooked onto the bow of the boat, its pale magical light reflecting over the water.

"Do you enjoy living in the city?" Nils asked the gondolier as she climbed into the boat.

"Sure." She smiled, revealing crinkles in the corners of her eyes. Her dark, callused hands began to untie the bowline knot that hitched the gondola to the dock. "I'd make three times as much somewhere else, but things work differently here. The Temple pays for a lot of things. My partner and I got a single room in the St. Olms canalworks, so rent is cheap. And it's true what you hear. There are no starving children or infirm in the streets. They're stingy with the free food tokens if you're healthy like me, but it doesn't matter for me since I can always afford to purchase enough grub to last me through the week. If you get sick, the healers provide their services at no charge. Not to mention the water's cleaner here. Vivec's not bad, sera. So long as we remember our duty to Almsivi, which is the least we can do for their generosity. The Temple cares about the people, unlike the backstabbing thieves working for your Empire."

She began to row faster, the muscles in her arms rippling.

He had to admit, as tyrannical as the Ordinators were with regard to disobedience, at least the Temple cared about its poor. He imagined there had to be some kind of drawback to all of this, other than the overzealous censorship and inquisition against perceived blasphemers. It was absolutely not an Imperial economic model, whose civilization was built upon practical values, like free trade and freedom of religion. Yet perhaps Vivec's system could be a good thing, for the poor at least. He wasn't sure what he would prefer himself; sacrificing dignity or comfort. For most of the Dunmer here in Morrowind, it seemed like they could only have one or the other.

Nils glanced at Peakstar and followed her gaze to the point up in the sky that she was looking at.

In the distance he saw the meteoric object, the enormous hollowed-out celestial object hovering just over the arches of the Temple district. It had many names. Baar Dau was what the Daedra had called it, the citizens knew the re-education center inside to be the Ministry of Truth, and Peakstar had called it _Lie Rock._ Now Nils understood why productivity was so high, and how this bizarre type of economy could actually work.

"Hlaalu Plaza!" the gondolier's throaty voice announced.

She slowed down momentarily, but as no one moved to get off (or on, which was a relief) she continued, weaving through the canals between the Hlaalu and Redoran cantons.

They passed under a myriad of bridges, with hanging banners decorated with House Indoril's insignia or depictions of various saints Nils did not recognize. Many included in stylized Daedric lettering such charming sayings as " _SPEAK NONE BUT GOOD OF THE GODS_ " and " _FAITH IS LAW_."

His Ashlander companion was squinting her eyes at the banners, craning her neck and showing a great effort in trying to read the intricate script.

"Don't worry. You're not missing much," Nils assured her. All of these aphorisms could be summed up in one word: Obey.

When at last they pulled into the St. Delyn canton, Nils stood up to disembark. He already prepared two gold coins to pay the gondolier as a tip, but when he held it out to her, she made no move to take it. If anything, the gondolier appeared to be making an effort to ignore him.

"Please, take it, you've been very helpful, muthsera," Nils said.

"We're not – I can't accept that." She spoke firmly, shaking her head.

"Are you certain? Truly, I think you deserve a bit more than just enough food to last you through the -"

A flash of anger twisted her face into a scowl.

"You don't understand. They get suspicious, could take away the – if we – nevermind. Just keep your money and _get off my boat_ , n'wah," she hissed.

Nils decided he ought to listen to her, so he clambered off the gondola. He was about to help Peakstar off the boat but she was already stepping onto the dock.

"Outlanders," the gondolier grumbled, rowing away.

That was remarkably peculiar.

He watched the lantern light from the gondola continue on through the canals. Not allowed to accept tips? He'd never heard of anything like that before. Just about every citizen of the Empire he knew would _gladly_ accept tips for their job.

"She thought I was an outlander?" Peakstar was now saying, as if that were the most she had gotten out of that tense exchange.

Nils chuckled.

"Maybe your association with an ignorant outlander like me is your best disguise. Come on."

 **Vivec, St. Delyn.**

He checked the address in his journal again.

 _Canal South-One_

 _Vivec St Delyn_

Apparently Ilmeni Dren lived in one of the city's poorer districts, though it wasn't comparable to any slum he had seen. This was the housing for the poor, yes, but without the usual misery, illness, and stench that typically accompanied poverty.

Peakstar decided to wait outside until Nils was done with his business. He stood in front of the door labeled "South-One" and knocked.

There was a pause.

"Just a moment!" He heard a muffled female voice shout.

Listening to the water flowing from the canals below, Nils felt strangely serene. He closed his eyes and waited. About thirty seconds later, the door swung open.

A Dunmer stood tall in front of him. She had a dignified, ageless look; Nils couldn't tell if she were older or younger than him. Her hair hung past her shoulders in zigzagging waves, as if she'd just shaken it loose from a braid. The laces of her bodice were untied.

"Muthsera Ilmeni Dren? I'm – " and then he remembered the code words. "Have you seen the Twin Lamps?"

"They light the way to freedom," the Dunmer woman coolly replied, stepping aside to let him in.

Nils entered the apartment, or room, rather. It was a tiny place, barely large enough for a bed, a low table with no chairs, a dresser, and a nightstand. It was about as big as Caius' apartment, though Ilmeni actually kept the place clean. A tabby-coated Khajiit was sitting on the bed. Strange. He hadn't seen the Khajiit when he first entered the room-

No, wait.

 _J'zhirr_ was sitting on the bed, his shirt off, with one leg crossed over the other.

"I see you arrived before me," Nils said, eyebrows raised.

J'zhirr grinned, showing all of his sharp teeth.

"Captain Lark is still in Ebonheart. This one would do best not to show his handsome face around the East Empire Company."

Ilmeni crossed her arms, coughing a little.

The Khajiit bounced off the bed and slinked over to her, wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Ilmeni's expression only softened slightly.

"Ah, Ilmeni, J'zhirr sees you have met this one's good friend, Nils."

She glanced at her visitor before commenting. Ilmeni Dren had a distant sort of politeness, her voice cool yet sincere.

"You're Nils? I heard you stabbed Omaren in the eye. Bit messier than I would have preferred, but I've been told none of us have been implicated, which truthfully is all that matters. Good work, sera."

"Erm, thanks. Pleasure to meet you as well," answered Nils, shoving his hands in his pockets and pretending to be examining the cover of a book on Ilmeni's table. All of this killing and murder, he didn't know how to respond to being _praised_ for it, yet it seemed to be happening every time he killed someone.

The meeting went shorter than Nils had planned, though he was relieved to let Ilmeni and J'zhirr get back to... whatever it was they were doing. What had come as a bit of a shock after seeing her humble abode was learning that Ilmeni's father was Vedam Dren, duke of Vvardenfell, and for Nils' great deeds at both the Omaren Plantation and Rotheran she'd be willing to pull any reasonable favors for him. Ilmeni also mentioned that if he wanted new leads on where he could help next, he could speak with Jobasha, that bookseller J'zhirr had told him about in Vivec's Foreign Quarter. Nils said he would think about it.

 **Vivec, Temple.**

Now that he'd gotten his obligatory meeting with the Twin Lamps out of the way, he had to speak with the contact that Caius actually wanted him to meet. Mehra Milo, a priestess who worked at the great library of Vivec. Caius told Nils that Mehra was not a Blade, or even a regular informant, but simply a like-minded friend who might share some intel if he asked nicely. The old man seemed to have a lot of friends.

Peakstar said that she knew of Mehra Milo, and that _she_ was supposed to speak with her as well. While Nils was inclined to trust Peakstar's words, this situation seemed too uncanny of a coincidence. Perhaps it wasn't all that bizarre. Peakstar was looking for secret books; Mehra Milo was a librarian.

"Surely this is a sign that the stars have brought our paths together. I must have been destined to save your life from the Sixth House so that you could help me fulfill the prophecies!" Peakstar exclaimed, whispering excitedly.

"Yes, well, keep your voice down. Don't talk about the prophecies here," Nils said. He really wanted to change the subject, and not even for the obvious reasons. Peakstar didn't ask him yet why he needed to speak with Mehra Milo. He'd rather not have to explain his association with the Blades, and he didn't want to lie to her. Not like withholding information was any better, but she hadn't asked.

On the other hand, he had not asked Peakstar what her relation with the priestess was either. It felt more like an unspoken agreement than anything, and he was inclined to keep it this way.

Caius had suggested that Nils arrive on the 27th of Frostfall, for that was the beginning of a three day celebration marking the end of a fast in honor of some saint. Lots of pilgrims coming through all week would keep the Ordinators busy.

By now dusk had fallen, and they could see the clustered spires of the High Fane and Vivec's Palace twilit by blues and purples. Both moons were full tonight and cast their glowing reflection on the rippling waters.

The old spymaster had been right. The streets were already packed, but he and Peakstar floated through the crowd until they were over the bridge.

At the ascent, all of the pilgrims stopped to take their shoes off and left them on the steps. Priests were roaming around to collect these offerings. Not wanting to offend any sacred traditions, Nils reluctantly removed his shoes. Peakstar did so as well.

Though the sun had disappeared over the horizon, the stone steps were still warm against his bare feet. Someone was playing a rollicking melody on the hurdy-gurdy while a group of barefooted youngsters danced in a circle. The fragmented conversations overheard exemplified the variety of backgrounds of the visitors and guests that had come to celebrate.

"For the last time, it's _tawny_ , not orange! Of all the things you could criticize you choose the color of my sash? I'm not the one with padding in my hose!"

"I'm so hungry, I could eat a rat..."

"Do you think Lord Vivec will make an appearance tonight?"

"Blessed Almsivi walk among us in spirit, and that is the most any of us could ask."

"Niolis is wearing her new suede boots today! The Three will be satisfied with her sacrifice!"

"Or they will scorn her bombastic display of altruism for its self-gratifying principal. What a bold thing she is."

"You ever wonder if the Benevolence of St. Rilms is just an excuse for them to give us less food tokens? I wish they'd ended this tradition and the Harrowing of St. Roris in Second Seed after the Arnesian War..."

"Still your tongue, s'wit! Don't you know where we are? Almsivi have mercy on you, for your head is emptier than your stomach."

Just outside the vaulted arcade of the High Fane, large crumbly bread rolls were handed out to any who asked.

Nils took a bite of his roll as he stared at one of the statues of Vivec in the square.

So this was what a god looked like...

Facing north, towards the other cantons, the stone effigy stood tall, both arms open and outstretched. Vivec's face portrayed nothing but serenity and grace, as if welcoming the humble masses to his fair city.

On the opposite end of the square was another statue depicting the same Tribune. This time, Vivec's hands gripped an enormous spear, which he was using to crush an overturned shalk. Righteous fury chiseled into his face, his pose strong and intimidating.

Nils then looked up at Baar Dau, the massive meteor looming so close to the Temple. The message seemed clear enough: Vivec loves those who love him, but woe to those who do not.

Chewing the pastry thoughtfully, he rather appreciated whatever sweet crème was inside. Sugary confections that Nils admitted to having a fondness for were difficult to come by in Vvardenfell with the austere nature of Dunmer cuisine. Once he'd finished his last bite of the sweetbread he realized it was also remarkably filling, and he felt much better after eating that. Peakstar was already going back into the line for seconds. Nils decided to explore the perimeter while she did that. Who was he to interrupt her eating her fill to celebrate a fast she did not even partake in?

Heading towards the open walkway underneath the High Fane, Nils was already whistling the catchy tune that the musician was playing on the hurdy-gurdy. He ought to play that one the next time he had a lute in his hands.

The covered arcade was lit up by round paper lanterns hanging from the vaulted ceiling resembling tiny floating wisps. Silky fabric swished as a veiled figure dressed all in white brushed ever so slightly past Nils. He was struck by a strange familiarity and his feet were compelled to follow.

It was dark, too dark for him to make any conclusions, and they wore a veil, but he thought he recognized something in their face...

Could it be...?

"Hail, pilgrim! Let no harm come to you on this joyous event!"

A shock shivered through Nils' entire body at these words too cheery to have come from that raspy voice. He whirled around and to his complete and utter shock he was face to face with a masked Ordinator, ebony mace and all, who towered over Nils with the usual intimidating pose, bonemold arms crossed over his chest.

"Uh, right, blessings of Almsivi upon you for your hard work, sera," Nils said, backing away slowly. The Ordinator followed him with his head only, not moving any other part of his body.

When Nils finally managed to turn himself away from the mace-wielding Temple guardian, the mysterious individual in white was gone. Nils rushed past all the revelers, still making an effort to not give the appearance of being a hurry if only to avoid the suspicion of the guards. Emerging at the other entrance of the arcade, he caught a glimpse of the ghostlike figure drawing up their skirts to scurry down to the canalworks.

Following after, he hoped there wouldn't be a chase. Why was he even following this person? He thought about turning back before they called the guards on him.

But instead of continuing to evade him, the figure in white stood waiting at the bottom of the steps.

The music and laughter of the festival drowned to silence as Nils stared at the stranger's face.

He knew this face. He knew the outline of her delicate nose, the almond shape of her slightly protruding eyes...

"Alma?"

She turned, pulling the rest of the gossamer veil from her face.

Yes, there she was, solemn and silent as ever.

The priestess did not display any sort of relief or happiness at seeing him again. Her eyes glowed with red urgency, staring through him without blinking.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, taking a step forward. He regretted not wondering about her until now; she'd disembarked with the rest of them at Ebonheart and vanished almost instantly. Not like anyone could have known what she was up to. Long ago, the rest of the crew left her alone when she made it painfully clear that she was not interested in socializing. Even Nils had stopped exhausting himself by trying to hold one-sided conversations with the silent priestess.

Seeing her now, she didn't look haughty or annoyed by him anymore. She just looked afraid.

He examined her new garment now. Though her silks were resplendent and white, it only evoked the sobriety of funereal clothes.

"Please, Alma. I... I don't know anything about you, really," he said, tossing his hands up with a sigh. "In all the time we traveled together, I still know absolutely nothing about you..."

Nils grimaced and shook his head.

The priests at Suran had treated her with reverence; he remembered that. Was she an important person to the Temple?

Why had she bothered to travel among skooma smugglers and thieves?

"I don't know if you're in some kind of danger, but let me help you. Please."

This time, he took a step in front of her so that she would be forced to look at him. Eyes the same impenetrable glass as their muted host. Alma was ephemeral, wraithlike, as if she had one foot in this world and the other in the next.

She turned to face the wall perpendicular to the staircase and pointed one silk-gloved finger at a banner with another aphorism.

Her eyes were wide with concern, silently pleading for him to... do what?

"'Always leave more than you take?' Hm. I guess that's nice, but what-"

Alma shook her head vigorously. She underlined the second word of the sentence with a trembling finger.

" _LEAVE."_


	28. The Secret Library of Vivec

**Vivec Temple, Library of Vivec.**

Like everyone else, Mehra Milo had been anticipating the Feast of St. Rilms with zeal.

More specifically, she was looking forward to _not_ attending.

While everyone else in the city was carousing outside, Mehra could have a rare moment of quiescence in the library, alone with the familiar scents of ink and old parchment.

Vivec City boasted the largest library in Vvardenfell, perhaps even the largest in Morrowind, and travelers from Necrom to Daggerfall visited daily.

As exhausting as working with the myriad of patrons could be, the Dunmer priestess was proud to call herself librarian, keeper of countless millions of words printed in 189,000 volumes resting on 571 shelves. Mehra did not see it as merely a library, no. It was a palace of opportunity, a realm of information in each tome.

"Muthsera."

The voice made her jump a little, which was a bit precarious seeing as she was currently shelving books on the third level whilst perched atop a ladder. However, she managed to finish her task without incident and descended safely to solid ground.

Goodbye, solitude.

"Brother Sarethan," she said, forcing a smile at her young colleague who had replaced his priestly attire with comfortable traveler robes. Or party robes, as he might have liked to fancy them for lack of anything more extravagant. "I'd imagined you were off to enjoy the celebration by now."

Sarethan nodded. Mehra watched him shift the weight between his feet clumsily. When he drew closer, she wrinkled her nose at the smell of sujamma. Not that she was inclined to pass judgment. Tonight, even priests were allowed to set aside their ascetic lifestyle to mingle with the common folk. Holidays such as these were undeniably important in engaging the people of Vivec from all walks of life, and Mehra could forgive a priest for indulging in too much drink if it meant that she didn't have to.

The priest even seemed to be enjoying it, and he proceeded to explain this to her with gusto:

"Oh, it is a beautiful night. They've got all the food you could possibly dream of, and _meat._ Not just rat meat, but hound meat and crab meat and you don't have to spend any of your tokens. You know, sister, you're allowed to have fun. Dance under the stars... eat like royalty... maybe share a jug of sujamma with a stranger or two? It's the only day we're allowed to do this. You deserve it. Tonight, no one has to work except for the Ordinators."

Earnestly as Sarethan was trying, Mehra did not know how she could explain herself to him.

She never imbibed a drop of liquor, nor did she dance, and her opinion of holding a feast was soured by the food shortages across Vvardenfell due to the Blight. Her idea of "fun" was not standing awkwardly while a brouhaha of sweaty strangers ebbed and flowed around her, attuned to a social rhythm that she could never understand.

"I don't mind staying here. I'll... erm, I'll try not to work too hard," was her eventual response.

Sarethan chuckled, patting a heavy hand on her back.

"You are so devoted to the Temple, I'm beginning to grow suspicious of you."

Mehra stopped blinking. Was that an implicit warning disguised as a stupid joke, or was it really just a stupid joke? _How much did he know?_ She tried to speak, to laugh, react in the natural way that a not-suspicious person might, but her mind had suddenly been wiped clean of any normative thought and all she could do was stand stupidly with her mouth agape.

"W-what-" she warbled, her throat feeling like it was coated with sand.

"Oh, don't look at me all fish-eyed. It's called a joke. Maybe you've read about them in your books?"

Mehra laughed nervously.

"I don't know, perhaps I ought to read the Yellow Book of Riddles again to understand," she said, then immediately regretted her idiotic attempt at a joke.

Sarethan shook his head at her, then chuckled again, pulling some food item from his robes.

"Here. I thought you might get hungry, so I brought this for you. It's _delicious_."

Mehra didn't really want to take the sticky bun he was offering her either, but refusing it would be rude.

Sarethan was standing there still, and Mehra realized she ought to oblige him by taking a bite of the damn pastry. It was filled with some cloyingly sweet cream that nearly made her gag. She would curse the day that she ever became desperate enough to eat something like this.

Perhaps she would take a walk later and break it into bits to feed it to the scavenging nightjars along the shore. Just so that it would not have to go to waste.

After Sarethan and his asininity had finally departed, Mehra hoped to try again for her own private serenity.

Sitting at the table, when she opened her book a carefully folded piece of paper fluttered out onto the table, thinned from being pressed inside of a heavy tome for so long.

Ah, the letter. Mehra had read it so many times already, but she read it again with a wistful smile.

 _My dear friend Mehra,_

 _Just last night I was reminiscing on our carefree days together at seminary. I still remember that time we replaced Master Llaren's sermon with a copy of that dreadful stage play by Crassius Curio! Oh, I do miss those days, but the both of us have gone our separate paths, and I understand your decision to stay in Vivec, for it is where you can best serve the Dunmer people._

 _With the success of our respective careers, one wouldn't believe what sort of antics we had engaged in during the innocence of our youth. However, those days are long past. Mehra, you are most dear to me, and I could not bear it if I heard that you were in trouble. Especially during these turbulent times, it is important that we remember our duty to the Tribunal when they need our support more than ever._

 _Although I mention this in every letter, yet again I extend my invitation for you to take time off to visit the Abbey. Not only do we have so much to catch up on, our new friends are eager to see you. However, I'm afraid my recollection is not what it used to be, and some of the older memories have eluded me. If any of them drop by Vivec to partake in the Benevolence of St. Rilms, do share with them what you can remember of the halcyon days. For the best memories are the ones that remind us of how rewarding our unwavering faith to ALMSIVI has been. It pains me to say it, but the youngest initiates are not nearly as devout as they ought to be. Through no fault of their own, of course; they have grown up in a red-ash world of blight and misery and these troubled times are all that they know. We have the privilege of knowing that our faith in the Three will be our salvation as it always has, but some of our newer friends could use your guidance to work towards a better future._

 _Humbly yours,_

 _Amaya._

Mehra had no friend named Amaya.

This letter had been written by Gilvas Barelo, a former curate who had galvanized the Dissident Priest movement about nine years ago. They had not been classmates; he had been her teacher some thirty years ago.

It had taken her less than an hour to decrypt the message. Obviously he wanted her to come to Holamayan where she would be safe. He told her that every time.

In the last few paragraphs, the important words she picked out were "new friends" and "old memories." she was certain he was telling her that an ally of the dissident priests would arrive soon to collect some books, and she was supposed to help them however she could.

Mehra closed her book again with mild annoyance, frustrated that she couldn't focus on the words with _that_ in mind.

This would be the extent of her seditious behavior. She needed to tell Gilvas to stop writing her, for if she were in danger it would all be _his_ fault.

Mehra took a deep breath, exhaling through her teeth. Gilvas wouldn't ask something like this if it wasn't important.

It had to do with that Peakstar; she knew it did. When she and Gilvas had their last hurried meeting, months and months earlier, Gilvas had mentioned he would try to seek her out, wanting to work with her. It made sense, really; he and the other dissident priests had a strange fascination with the Nerevarine prophecies, principally because it was another supposed blasphemy the Tribunal attempted to suppress. Mehra herself never had the luxury to peruse all of the apographa, but much of what she did have access to made oblique reference to the idea that the Nerevarine would not only drive the foreigners out of Morrowind, but herald the very downfall of the Tribunal. It was no wonder these stories were denounced as heresy and the Nerevarine cultists viciously persecuted. No tool of dissent was more powerful than the printed word, according to her old friend Gilvas Barelo, yet the illiterate Ashlanders managed to terrify the Tribunal through word of mouth alone.

The door opened, interrupting her thoughts yet again.

She clenched her fists in annoyance, about to reproach whomever had entered, yet stopped herself when she saw who the visitor was.

Almalexia's emissary, that priestess who received her "blessing" of silence stood in her doorway. Naturally everyone was curious about her, especially after she had been summoned to Lord Vivec's palace, but Mehra did not wish to jump to any unfortunate conclusions like so many had already done. Mostly, the girl kept to herself. Her condition did not allow her to socialize. Mehra wished she had that sort of excuse not to have to engage in conversation with people.

"Alma? What are you doing here?" Mehra asked, before realizing that Alma could not respond. The younger priestess looked down, and only then did Mehra notice the light-skinned Dunmer she had in tow. A male, with wavy dark hair and a soft, nonthreatening face. Without a doubt he was handsome, but he looked like such an outlander that she could practically smell it.

"Care to explain yourself? Did you merely wish to browse the collection or was there something in particular that you needed?" Mehra asked sternly, eyes narrowed.

Somehow Alma managed to slip away unseen as Mehra spoke, leaving her alone with this stranger whose ambiguous smile she could not decrypt.

The foreigner arched an eyebrow.

"Muthsera. Pardon my intrusion. You are Mehra Milo?"

"Librarian of Vivec, yes. To whom am I speaking to?" she asked stiffly, crossing her arms as if to guard herself against his glib speech.

"Nils," he replied, his arms outstretched at his sides in an expression of openness. "It is a pleasure to meet you, after all that I have heard."

"And what is it that you have heard?"

"Well, our friend Codaesa wanted me to meet with you. She's leaving to visit family in the mainland in a few weeks, but I was told that you could help finish what she started."

Oh, that was just great. Another coded message.

Codaesa. Who was Codaesa? Mehra scoured her brain for what that could possibly mean. Re-arranging the letters in her head for the thousands of possible combinations, she realized that Codaesa was one letter off from being an anagram for Cosades. Caius Cosades... that old Imperial? That was a surprise. Here Mehra nearly assumed this Nils was going to be one of the "new friends" referenced in Gilvas Barelo's letter.

"Finish what, exactly?" she ventured.

"My religious education, of course. I wish to serve ALMSIVI in the best way I can, but as an outlander it is difficult to convince others that I am serious about my convictions."

He seemed to be improvising. Remarkably well. This half-mer came across as charming, yet not oily. He displayed aplomb without arrogance. Mehra wanted to trust him, but she didn't know if she _should_.

What she gleaned from this brief interaction was that Caius expected her to tell Nils all that she could about the situation with the dissident priests and the hidden writings of the Temple, of which even Caius knew very little about. She could have allowed him to continue improvising a while longer, but Mehra decided to acquiesce to him.

As dangerous as this territory was, she did owe Caius a tremendous favor.

"Very well, _sera_. We'll speak in my office."

Perhaps "office" was not the proper word to describe her quarters, for she also had a bed and small dining table in this room attached to the library. Mehra wasn't sure _why_ she called it an office, but if anyone happened to be listening outside it definitely sounded better than if she invited him into her bedroom. Thankfully, Nils was polite enough not to mention her misapplication.

She poured both of them tea from a kettle that had cooled hours ago.

It wasn't until she took a sip herself that she realized it may have been inconsiderate to serve cold tea to a guest.

At least she gave him the mug that didn't have a chip in it.

"Why aren't you wearing any shoes?" Mehra suddenly asked, looking down at his feet for the first time. The rest of him didn't look like a rapscallion. Why forgo shoes?

Nils thought her question was hilarious and burst into laughter.

"Ye gods, I thought you were supposed to know these things." He then took on a throaty, pompous-sounding voice in an uncanny imitation of the Archcanon. Tholer Saryoni was privately lampooned by the tenacious for his turgid speeches and soporific voice, and she imagined Nils had already experienced a sample of that from his speech at the festival.

"During the Feast that marks the end of the Benevolence of Saint Rilms, this period of fasting all of us have dutifully undergone, it is customary for those who can afford it to donate a pair of shoes to the Temple, to be distributed to those less fortunate than they. This symbolic practice represents the generosity of Saint Rilms, who-"

"Lived among the poor and gave away her only pair of shoes to a beggar, yes, I know. Erm... I haven't actually been to the Feast of Saint Rilms before. I forgot about that practice." She bit her lip, trying not to be too embarrassed that this outlander knew something about the Temple that she didn't.

They had quite the varied discussion; Nils seemed particularly interested in the Nerevarine cult and why the Temple reviled them as heretics. He claimed that he was in contact with the mysterious Peakstar, though he wouldn't divulge much information about her.

When he told her that she was on a mission to steal "secret books" from the Library of Vivec, Mehra did not need any more convincing that Peakstar was the "new friend" that Gilvas Barelo referred to. What a bizarre coincidence that the two would meet on the way to Vivec, both seeking assistance from Mehra Milo for different reasons.

"I know which books your Peakstar is looking for, but they're not exactly accessible. Not even to me. The Hall of Wisdom is not the only place in the Temple canton with a library. Hidden beneath the Hall of Justice is the secret library of Vivec, where the canons keep an archive of the apographa, or 'secret writings' of the Temple, along with other books that are in defiance of the strictures. I'll show you how to get there. I can even lend you my key. That's all I will do for you. I will not be implicated in this ordeal. Now listen up, because I'm not going to write these titles down for you. You're going to have to remember this. _Nerevar at Red Mountain. Nerevar Moon-and-Star. Kagrenac's Tools. The 36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 29. Miscellanea Ald Resdaynia._ "

Nils blinked at her with some incredulity obfuscated beneath his polite manner. He took a sip of tea.

"Wouldn't it be easier for _you_ to steal the books? I mean... you're the librarian. You're actually allowed down there. If someone finds me, I'm doomed. Oh, and I'll have your key, so you'll be charged as an accomplice. Now, if someone sees you, you could just tell the guards that you were making sure that none of the revelers found their way to the secret library. Or something like that. You probably know better than I do. More importantly, you actually _know_ where these books are. Imagine someone as clueless as _me_ down there, shuffling around aimlessly and taking books out and putting them back where they don't belong. I might spend an hour down there just looking for these titles, whereas you can locate them in minutes and be out of there while I'm still distracting the Ordinators with fascinating conversation."

Mehra stared at him. What he was saying _did_ make a lot of sense. Years ago she had vowed never to do anything so egregiously traitorous such as this. A librarian like her was not equipped to be a spy. She did not have Gilvas Barelo's wit as sharp as his pen, nor Caius' legerdemain, and she definitely did not have Nils' power of persuasion. Mehra preferred to leave the skullduggery to the people far more capable than she. But in her heart she knew this was the right thing to do, no matter how many strictures she would be violating.

Her personal sentiment regarding the Temple was complicated to say the least, but she supported the dissident priests because they were the ones brave enough to search for answers to their questions.

"Alright, Nils," Mehra said, conceding to him finally. "You're right. I'll go and retrieve the books for you."

"For Peakstar, actually," Nils corrected.

Not like any of that mattered to Mehra. It was all for Gilvas Barelo in the end, but even Nils did not seem to fully understand the extent of his involvement. Was he blindly helping Peakstar without knowing anything about the dissident priests or what they stood for? Perhaps he was a fool. A charismatic, affable fool acutely skilled in appearing he knew what he was talking about.

He was on their side, though, so perhaps that was all that mattered now.

 **Vivec, Hall of Justice.**

Stealing the books would have been easy, if both entrances to the secret library didn't happen to be located in the headquarters for the Ordinators in Vivec. Thankfully, security was practically skeletal in the Hall of Justice as most of their numbers were busy watching the revelers outside.

Just outside the Office of the Watch, Mehra hid behind a pillar, thankful that no one could see the petrified look on her face as she dropped eaves on the conversation between Nils and an Ordinator. She twisted the chain of the silver pendant around her neck nervously.

"You're not supposed to be in here," lambasted the Ordinator, heavy voice muffled by his bonemold mask.

"Oh. Where am I again? I've been looking for someone to ask about the shrines in the High Fane, but it seems that all the priests are out celebrating."

Nils obviously didn't have to practice to sound like a clueless outlander. At least he was taking the "humble newly converted pilgrim" approach. Though usually openly hostile to outlanders, even the most hardened servants of the Three could not resist an opportunity to spread the word to any foreigners displaying showed genuine interest.

But this Ordinator was not budging. His voice lowered to a dangerous rasp.

"I know what you are. You're a pretender, like the other foreign-born scum. Mocking our traditions, indulging in a feast undeserved. I'm only going to tell you one more time that you're _not supposed to be in here._ Go on. Get lost. Go and be merry as long as it is out of my sight."

There was a pause. If Mehra had been in Nils' situation, this would be the part where she would keep her eyes to the ground and slink away.

But clearly he had a bit more resolve than she.

"I don't know if it's right, _sera._ For me to be partaking in the feast. That wasn't what I came here for. I came to Vivec to learn more about the Temple. I'm not a pretender. I may be a new initiate, but I just want to learn," said Nils, his voice still gentle and unshaken. He paused for a beat, to make certain that the Ordinator was at least willing to hear him out, and not lose his temper and exercise his divine right to beat up anyone he didn't like.

"Go on," the gruff voice replied, after several more seconds of silence.

"You're right. I am a foreigner. I grew up in Cyrodiil, you know. It's so different there. People don't care for their own."  
"Imperials, you're speaking of?" Now the Ordinator actually sounded engaged. Mehra rolled her eyes. Any chance to spew vitriol about the Empire, of course.

"Unfortunately, _sera._ My father was an Imperial, but I've since rejected the sanctity of the Nine Divines that were forced upon me. The Imperials are a... decadent race," Nils lamented.

"At least you recognize their damnable greed, though it does not excuse the crimes of your people – it's true, isn't it?"

A pause followed the Ordinator's anacoluthon before he elaborated.

"That an Imperial would steal a crust of bread from an orphan's hands if they thought it would turn a profit?"

"Worse. I've seen agents march into an orphanage and repossess the bread because the folks in charge couldn't afford to pay their taxes."

"And yet they still insist that they have souls," muttered the Ordinator. Mehra heard the crackling of bonemold armor, as if the guard were stretching. Was that a yawn she heard? The Ordinator quickly disguised it with an "Ahhh," and lowered his voice again to emphasize the ash-worn grit, attempting to reassert some kind of authority."But I must remind you again that you really shouldn't be here. You are standing in the Hall of Justice. These offices may only be accessed by members of our sacred order, and those on official business. Now, move along."

"Ah, my apologies for the intrusion, _sera._ I'll be out of your way. As I said, I meant no harm. I was only looking for someone who could teach me about the shrines in the High Fane."

"The shrines, you say? Hm. I'm going to show you the way out of here. I'll tell you a thing or two about the shrines if it means you won't go wandering off again in places you don't belong to look for someone else to bother."

Mehra already had the trapdoor key in her hand as the _clunk clunk clunk_ of the Ordinator's boots disappeared down the hallway. It was time to climb down below...

 **Vivec, Hall of Justice Secret Library.**

Just as Nils had said, Mehra had no difficulty navigating through the claustrophobic corridor that was the secret library, even in this darkness. It was much less organized than the grand library in the Hall of Wisdom, but this was a secret library, and even Mehra was not allowed down here without an Ordinator escort.

Erstwhile someone must have arranged the books roughly by subject. Likely, that someone had been Mehra's predecessor, a mysterious librarian that the others avoided speaking of. The Temple could do that to people; nullify their existence. She wondered what that person did to deserve their name being erased from history.

Probably something similar to what Mehra was doing.

What multitudes of subjects there were! From Ashlander legends to "myths" of vampire cults in Vvardenfell, the Temple didn't like to admit that certain things existed, so they hid them away in the secret library.

With rugs covering every inch of the floor and tapestries lining the walls, the cold blue from her lantern was the only source of light to guide her through the enveloping dark jade and indigo fabric. She wasn't certain whose design choice that had been; it wasn't like anyone was going to be down here very long. Really, all it did was make the place smell like musty carpet, which overpowered the scent of musty books. Whose idea was this? Maybe, in addition to being the Temple's repository for apographic material, this room was also where they stored the extra tapestries.

Mehra's eyes scanned the spines of books with sharp efficiency. Her memory of the exact color, width, and height of these volumes helped her far more than this halfhearted organization.

First book: _The Thirty-Six Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 29_. Though officially part of the Hierographa, or priestly writings, Mehra had good reason to include this volume on her list. _Sermon 29_ had become scarce as grass in the Ashlands in recent years and the circumstances were bizarre. With the book curiously disappearing from library shelves and bookstores, it was difficult to say anything about the rumors circling its contents when no one actually had it in their possession to _prove_ it.

One night, someone had even broken into the Hall of Wisdom and stolen all five copies that they had.

That might have something to do with why there were exactly five copies of that book down here in the secret library.

Mehra slipped one off the shelf and placed it in her satchel, moving quickly to locate the other books. As she did this, she made certain that any gaps made by the missing books were filled in an attempt to cover her tracks _slightly_ better.

Two of the titles were actually scrolls, and the scroll shelf was a nightmare to sift through. It looked like someone had just shoved them into the square cubbyholes and forgotten about them. Reams of invaluable, gossamer-thin parchment being handled by someone with the gentleness of a barbarian. Unbelievable.

Mehra was running out of time. Carelessly, she pulled one scroll out too quickly, and an avalanche of twenty more tumbled to the carpeted floor.

Oh, what luck. Mehra dropped to her knees, scrabbling to tidy up her mess.

Keeping the two scrolls that she needed and shoving the rest back into the shelves just as haphazardly as they had originally been placed, Mehra was ready to get out of this dingy burrow. She could thank ALMSIVI for that.

… No, that wasn't right.

Who was she supposed to be praying to now?

It mattered not; she was getting _out_ of here.

 **Vivec, Temple Underworks.**

Nils was late in meeting her beneath the High Fane.

Mehra could think of two reasons.

One, he was still engaging the Ordinator in 'fascinating conversation' as he had put it.

Two, he had been arrested and was already on his way to the Ministry of Truth for re-education.

For his sake (and hers) she hoped it was the former.

Even though she had her handkerchief pressed to her face, the fetid odor still permeated. Every shadow that flickered across the tunnel walls and every water splash made her jump a little. Rats and slaughterfish, she reassured herself.

Finally, _finally_ an elongated Nils-shaped shadow approached, followed by Nils himself, who must have picked up a pair of old boots along the way, though neglected to tie the laces. His gait was slower than the confident strides he had displayed before.

"Am I ever glad to see you," breathed Mehra, thrusting the satchel towards Nils before he could say anything. The sooner the evidence was off of her, the better.

He took the satchel, mumbling a "thanks," and went to staring at a forgotten fresco on the wall. The faded mural on the wall depicted a tall robed mer walking with a line of several others behind him.

"That's Saint Veloth, leading the Chimer into Morrowind. Or Resdayn, as it was known then. Did the Ordinator tell you about him too?" asked Mehra, trying to nudge him into telling her what happened, or maybe explain why he took so long.

Then Mehra realized that Nils wasn't really looking at the fresco, but staring blankly in its general direction with oneiric eyes. He blinked several times and looked up at Mehra.

"Hm. Among other things, yes," he said distantly.

"That was really great," she continued. "What you did back there, with the Ordinator. You made it sound so effortless! I see them every day, and I still get nervous when they look at me with those emotionless mask-faces."

Nils shrugged.

"They're just people," he said. His voice sounded heavy and his brow had a sheen of perspiration. Nils was pale – well, a paler shade of wood-ash than he usually was.

Mehra brought the lantern closer to his face, but all it did was make Nils squint and turn his head. "Do you feel ill?" she asked.

Nils took a deep breath, placing a hand to support himself against the stone wall. He really did not look well.

"What? Oh, I'm alright. I ate a sweetroll earlier. Maybe it didn't agree with me," he said. "Just... maybe if I sit down..."

His eyes rolled back and his body suddenly started to drop like a sack of ash yams.

Mehra caught him by the shoulders before he fell.

Well, that was unexpected.

She stood there dumbly for a few seconds with Nils' dead weight leaning against her before she gently lowered him to the ground.

Dark splotches began to cloud her vision. Then she remembered to breathe.

Mehra told herself not to panic. But that wasn't going to stop her hands from shaking and her heart from pounding.

She was even having trouble detecting his pulse with her own heartbeat hammering in her ears. But he was still very much alive, because when she nudged him his dry lips began to vocalize nonsense words.

Oh, what was she going to do now? He was supposed to get out of here with the evidence, the books, these gods-forsaken books that were going to get them both killed.

Mehra desperately wanted to calm herself down, to think of an escape plan. But her mind was already swarming with the worst possible outcomes. A swift execution would be a blessing, but the punishment for heresy was rarely merciful. Would they be flayed? Tossed into the lagoon from the top of the Ministry of Truth with their arms and legs bound? Tortured until they betrayed the secrets they held about Peakstar and the dissident priests, and _then_ burned alive? How long would she be able to last under torture?

Not very long. This, she knew.

She could not beg for assistance with this incriminating evidence in her possession. Did she still have time to sneak into the Hall of Justice and put the books back where they belonged? No, of course not, what a foolish thought that was. Destroying the books was out of the question – they were worth far more than she was.

Nils' eyes flitted agog in a frisson of phantasmagorical fervor.

"The flesh is the divine," he murmured.

His body erupted with violent convulsions.

No matter how many healing spells she used, the effects appeared to be nugatory.

Mehra buried her face in her hands and leaned her back against the wall.

This wasn't what she thought she would be doing, thirty years ago during her time in seminary. She loved the Temple, or what they once stood for. Charity, compassion, education as a right afforded to everyone instead of a privilege for the wealthy.

And yet here she was, sitting down here in the sewers with no gods left to pray to.

How could Nils do this to her?

'Don't worry,' he had said with insouciance. 'Just get me the books, and I can handle the rest.' That _n'wah_ and his bombast had ruined her, ruined her!

Treacherous thoughts invaded Mehra's dithering.

There was nothing preventing her from absconding with the books, abandoning Nils.

To avoid punishment for her perfidy, it appeared the only viable option.

How long until someone noticed her absence? Should she leave now?

Certainly, this was the most sensible thing to do...

No.

She wasn't about to leave him to _die._ What kind of degenerate priestess would she be?

But... as cruel as it was, perhaps she could save _more_ lives by getting these books to Holamayan...

Footsteps. Not the unnerving thunk of Indoril bonemold against stone, but a light pitter-patter barely echoing against the walls.

Mehra opened her eyes.

A figure clad in white was approaching, eyes owlish with curiosity.

She identified the person immediately. But it took a few moments before Mehra could properly form words.

" _Alma?_ What are you doing here?"


	29. Curse of Flesh

**Azura's Coast.**

There was water, and a lot of light.

Too much light he felt sick.

The song undulated in his head, first divine euphoria and then poison vitriol lies filthy lies he vomited over the edge of the skiff but he still felt sick.

He scratched at his face to tear off the false aspect but Peakstar grabbed him and her fingernails made dents in his skin. Dagoth's skin. His face was a lie and she did not KNOW.

"Do you know why they call it the Sea of Ghosts?"

"This is not the Sea of Ghosts," she answered without hearing his question. Stupid. Liar.

Peakstar did not know. She understood nothing, not with hands like scamp claws and hair that smelled of kwama cuttle.

"They call it the Sea of Ghosts because Truth was murdered beneath Red Mountain."

Peakstar said nothing.

Light stabbed his eyes so he closed them but then he saw the golden-masked Sharmat Dagoth Ur and when he opened his eyes again he had to squint with tears forcing him to close his eyes and hear the Song fragrant as lavender sprigs and decaying flesh. Dagoth drinking brandy from a shell cup nearly naked they can See him when his eyes are closed he can hear them when his eyes are closed. The insect orchestra drones on as they set fire to his body from the inside where they sleep but only when his eyes are closed. Pain. Pain that would cleanse him or kill him.

Dagoth was a monster Dagoth was a martyr Dagoth was a monster Dagoth was a martyr.

"Cut off my eyelids!" he shouted.

He did not want to feel this pain any longer when his eyes were closed, but he was not strong enough to keep them open when the light pierced like needles.

"No."

"Let me at my dagger."

"No."

"Harpy!" he spat.

Why was he being punished? Nils tried to claw at his eyes they were so smooth and round and perfect and he wanted to feel them in the palms of his hands like squishy pebbles but the harpy paralyzed him with her magic and tied his arms and legs with a cold wet rope attached to an anchor.

The anchor had barnacles on it.

Nils' arm had barnacles too.

Welts ruptured bleeding yellow pus. He smelled like putrefaction, like the shrine of Hassour where he first heard the bells. Yet the odor only made him ravenous. His right hand was swelling dark purple fingers fat with the bloat of decay.

The boat swayed it made him sick this sea-dream made him sick he wanted to carve a hole in the bottom of the skiff and sleep until the next era in an ocean-floor-dream.

Eyes closed. The song embraced him, understood him like no one else had. Eyes open. The hunger gnawed at him a constant aching void. Eyes closed. Dagoth's words were worms tunneling through his brain with beautiful lies. When he resisted the words they turned to knives tearing through his memories, stripping away the life he could hardly remember now. Who was Peakstar? Why was she here?

Who was _he?_

"Who..." he started.

"Your name is Nils. My name is Peakstar. We met in Hassour, remember?"

The words were familiar. He might have heard them in eighteen other lives. Her image split into two Peakstars.

"I don't know you. No... I do remember. Murderer. You made me murder them. Dagoth's children."

"Yes, Nils. Something there gave you the curse of flesh. Your people call it Corprus disease. No healing spells have helped. You told me to take you to a place called Tel Fyr when you were able to remember yourself. That is where we are going now."

Peakstar's voice was watery, rippling like the waves that carried the skiff. Again, it felt as if this was not the first time she had said these words to him...

He remembered something. Yes. The smoke began to clear from his head... oh, gods, what was wrong with his hand? What was wrong with his _body_? He could hardly move this turgid bag of pus and rot. There were so many disgusting things about him. The black decay on his right hand was spreading past the wrist now. The veins running up his arm appeared nearly black. Pain, excruciating, hammering in his ears.

"I'm so sorry..." he did not know what else to say. There was barely any energy left to speak.

Peakstar's image was still fuddled. He could not see her face.

"Do not be afraid for me. No disease will harm the Nerevarine. This is stated in the prophecy." She was confident about that, at least. Nils did not know if he could be about his own fate.

"Am I going to die?"

"I don't know."

There was nothing for a while. The song returned in a light crescendo.

"Please keep talking," Nils said in one pained breath. "It distracts me from the madness."

He waited, and waited. Illusory light-ribbons in stained-glass colors danced in front of his face. The music became louder. Why wasn't she talking? She opened her lips once, and then closed them, as if trying to think of the right things to say. Nils didn't care what she said, as long as it was something.

"Why were you named Peakstar?" he suggested.

Peakstar took a deep breath before speaking.

"I was born during a great storm. My mother was aboard a ship sailing across the Sea of Ghosts when she went into labor. The ship capsized in the tempest, and she swam to the shores of Ald Redaynia... she protected me with her own life. When the Urshilaku found her... _us_... she was dead, cradling me, the newborn infant, in her arms. Even the cord was still attached. So far as I know, I was the only survivor of the shipwreck.

"The ship washed ashore some days later. It was of Nordic design, and bore the name _Peakstar_ on its side _._ That is all I know about where I come from."

This sounded like something out of a storybook, but Peakstar was an extraordinary individual. Her origins did satisfy the vague prophecies of the Nerevarine. Questionable parentage, possibly an orphan. He remembered that from Sees-Through-Dusk.

His hand had gone numb, but his arm still throbbed. The poison song fluctuated, its rhythm irregular and choppy. He heard distorted laughter in the background.

"Weren't there records on the ship? If it vanished... there would be people... looking..." he murmured, finding it difficult to form words with shivering lips.

"I would not know where to look. Perhaps... one day, someone will have known of the missing ship, and recognize my name. But there is no reason for me to want this. My fate was decided before I was born."

And what was Nils' fate? To die from Corprus at thirty-one?

Or if they made it to Tel Fyr, would he live out a fate worse than death, transformed into a hulking, shambling corpse, forever trapped in the madness of this fever? Zaryth once told him that the Corprus patients do not age, or suffer from any other afflictions. Divayth Fyr's Corprusarium was his best chance at surviving... but did he really want to survive in this form?

Nils tugged at his bindings, trying to pull his arms apart. But Peakstar had bound him tightly. The bloated corpse arm was pressed against his healthy arm. It was sticky with pus and made squishing sounds. And gods, the smell, he tried to ignore it but it made him feel so hungry. He disgusted himself. That arm, he did not want to look at the purple swollen thing. Dead it was dead dead dead dead.

"Peakstar... would you please loosen my binds?"

Another lengthly pause. Nils was growing irritated by all of her pauses. Did she really think he had so much time left? His life was like a discarded clock with no one left to wind it while it slowly, painfully ran out of time. And she was wasting the few hours, minutes, seconds he had left.

"I will do no such thing. The last time I let you free, you went mad and tried to gouge out your eyes," she finally said.

"It's because the sun is too bright but I don't want to close my eyes."

There went another seven seconds of Nils' life while Peakstar thought about what to do. She removed the red cloth that was wrapped around her neck. Usually she had it around her nose and mouth to protect her from the harsh Ashland winds, of which there were none in the Azura's Coast region. Not yet, at least. Dagoth Ur would spread the Blight storms to all of Tamriel if he had his way.

She tied the kerchief around Nils' head to cover his eyes, like a blindfold. Why was she touching him? He had Corprus. What if she got infected too? The fool.

The fabric may have been mildly placating at first, for it did protect his eyes from the brutal sun, but then it became another limitation, another prison. Blind, vulnerable, helpless. He couldn't even take it off because his hands were bound.

The pain seared through his bones, burning his veins; his blood must have been acid. There was nothing left to see, so he focused on what there was to hear. But there was nothing left to hear but the poison song, swelling in intensity and filling his insides with hot coals.

Would nothing bring him relief?

"I don't know what to do. I'm afraid. I'm very afraid."

"I know, Nils. We'll be at Tel Fyr soon."

No. She didn't know. How could she possibly know what was happening to him?

Peakstar called it a curse. Zaryth called it a disease.

They understood nothing.

He closed his eyes and felt the mild stinging because of how dry they were.

This was not a disease. It was a divine gift. Dagoth's gift.

Dagoth spoke, breath twisting into ringlets of ash. When Dagoth spoke all went silent except the purgative song which shaped itself to his voice and reorganized the static in Nils' brain. He spoke for the one whose name was the Daedric letter Vehk. He spoke for the one whose name was the Daedric letter Ayem. He spoke for the one whose name was the Daedric letter Seht. They broke their promise to the one they watched die beneath Red Mountain they could have healed him but they watched him die. Dagoth Ur told him so. Dagoth Ur told him that the Three betrayed him too. Nils understood.

Or he thought.

Dagoth Ur would tell him.

Soon, he said.

Soon. Beneath Red Mountain.

Dagoth Ur knew everything.

He spoke again and the song sharpened Nils' pain into hatred.

Outlander; that's what Nils was, but he was different. That's what Dagoth Ur said.

Dagoth Ur made him feel special. Dagoth Ur loved him. He loved Dagoth Ur.

The Three sold Morrowind to the rabid dogs. A ruthless dog named Tiber Septim on a white horse demanded it. Everyone in Mournhold Palace massacred by this army of dogs. Except the princess. The princess was brainwashed degraded vitiated until nothing was left but adulation for the Empire and they returned her to Mournhold Palace with strings tied to her back.

Dagoth Ur knew all of this. He was once known as Voryn Dagoth and he loved Resdayn before it was corrupted by the traitors and dogs. They changed the name to Morrowind and stole everything the Dunmer had. They stole the ebony they stole the glass their dog on a white horse erased a town from existence to make room for the castle of New Ebonheart.

Dunmer children starved their food stolen put on Imperial plates. Dunmer children starving dying wasting into nothing but bones, bones collected by the Temple to be used for the Ghostfence this blasphemous desecration of their revered ancestors ancestors he hated the Empire he hated the Tribunal the only one who could save Resdayn was Dagoth Ur Dagoth Ur Dagoth Ur Dagoth Ur Dagoth Ur

 **Tel Fyr.**

Nils' eyes were swollen shut, but he was awake.

Awake, somewhere... warm. Humid.

Smelled like mushrooms. At least he didn't feel the urge to sneeze.

The only word that could describe what he was feeling was 'pain.' Pain everywhere. Agonizing, burning pain all the way down to his bones. His throat was parched and everything felt sore and weak and stiff too from being asleep for a long time but mostly he was in pain.

Nils grunted, trying to shift himself into a seated position. It wasn't really working. His right arm wasn't doing what he wanted it to do. It tingled numbly and he tried to rub it against the cot but it wasn't moving. He managed to move his left arm slightly, but it felt brittle and twig-like.

Brisk footsteps hurried in his direction.

"Hm. Well, this is awkward. You're actually not supposed to be awake yet."

That voice. Nils recognized that voice. Divayth Fyr, the old Telvanni wizard. So he did make it to Tel Fyr, after all. He didn't even remember getting off the boat, but apparently it happened.

The delirious fever seemed to have passed. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. This might just be another brief interlude of lucidity before he descended back into the mad embrace of Corprus. But he felt different. He was in pain and he could not move his body, but he no longer felt the ravenous cravings for his own flesh, nor did he wish to blind himself with his fingers.

"Wachhhhrrrr."

That was Nils' attempt to ask for water, but his tongue felt enormous and his throat could only make strange rasping sounds. Sharp electrifying stabs assaulted his brain whenever he tried to do anything.

Nils heard a faint clinking, like several empty vials being rustled around.

"Zaryth, prepare an anesthetic for Patient 2292," Divayth ordered with a tone of crisp professionalism.

Zaryth. She was here? Nils tried to speak again but his throat was still rusted.

"He has a name," he heard her mumble as light footsteps hurried out the room.

Someone pressed something cold and solid against Nils' lips.

Then, a surprisingly gentle hand reached behind Nils' back, sitting him up to allow him to drink the water from the cup. He tried to open his eyes some more, but he could only see through small slits for openings. Divayth took the cup of water away from him and slowly lowered Nils' back to the cot again.

That damned arm was still tingling pins and needles. If only he could move it out of that odd position, maybe rub the feeling back into it...

"Serjo Fyr..." he tried to speak, but Divayth interrupted him.

"Talking wastes energy. Fluids, too. Stop talking, and drink more."

Nils obliged, and after the second cup his belly woke up to start aching from being full of water and nothing else.

"What's... what's happened?" Nils said in a weak voice, without the capacity to care that he already disobeyed Divayth's no-talking order.

"You are an extraordinary patient, 2292. I suppose I might call you Nils again. Eh, on second thought, no. I won't. Too confusing. Haven't finished documenting your recovery."

"Uhh... recovery?"

"Yes, recovery. Ah, you have no idea how wonderful it is for me to say that word. You, 2292, are the very first recorded person to be cured from Corprus. Even I am impressed."

"I've been cured?" Nils asked, dazed.

"Well, 'cured' is a bit of a misnomer. I've spent decades of research on the disease, and had nearly given up on ever finding a cure. None of the patients have responded to conventional formulæ that target the infection itself, so I went in a different direction. I actually developed this formula months ago. Thought I'd figured it out. The potion is designed to halt the degeneration of the mind and body, while leaving the disease intact. In theory, it was supposed to work. Didn't work when I first tested it. Killed patients 2289, 2290, and 2291 almost immediately. There was no reason for me to believe that you would respond any differently, and I was far more willing to keep you alive while you were still useful to me as a subject. But in the end Zaryth insisted on a fourth trial –"

Nils was not paying too much attention as Divayth rambled on. He only wanted to get some kind of sensation in his arm back. It was twisted in such an awkward position and numb-tingling as if it had fallen asleep. The left arm was stiff as wood, not much of an improvement from the right, but at least it was responsive. He brought it over and slapped down hard on his right arm.

His hand hit the bedding instead. Head swimming from dizziness, he tried hitting the bed several more times.

This was disorienting. he fanned out his fingers, searching for the arm. It had to be there; he could feel it prickling.

Nils cracked his eyes open just in time to see Divayth's hard-set features displaying their usual dispassion, thin lips curled in mild annoyance.

Still laying on his back, Nils laboriously tilted his head to the right.

The arm he felt was not there.

His hand and forearm were missing. Cut cleanly off just an inch past his elbow, with nothing but a stump remaining. This must be some kind of cruel joke. He had felt it – could still feel it! Like pins and needles, only worse.

Something was... moving? Nils blinked several times to clear his focus.

Pale maggots wriggled around in the healing stump of his arm. Hundreds of them, feasting as if his open wound were some delicious rotten peach. Oh, gods, he felt sick. Why were there maggots?

"Where – what –" Nils croaked. "My arm –"

Divayth sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes. He glanced down the hallway first before he answered.

"Gone, yes. I amputated it myself. You're incredibly lucky to have only lost your arm, you know," he said, waving his hand dismissively. The ancient Dunmer's eyes darted back to the corridor again. Waiting for Zaryth to return with the sedative so that Nils would shut up, he figured.

But his flustered thoughts were tumbling out faster than he could form words. He didn't want to sleep again; he wanted answers.

"I felt it just now – but it still hurts – gone – why maggots?"

"Milkfly larvae, to be specific. Wonderful creatures. They feed on necrotic flesh and leave healthy tissue alone."

"You – you can't fix it? Like you did the Corprus?"

Divayth let out another impatient sigh. Explaining things to his patients must have been horribly inconvenient for him.

"You cannot heal that which is already dead. Would you prefer I re-attach a bloated, necrotic arm to your body?"

"No, thank you," Nils said mildly.

"You'll be alright. How good are you at writing with your left hand?"

"I'm left-handed."

"Great!" Divayth said, rubbing his dark callused hands together. "Shaking hands might be awkward, I suppose, but people are more understanding than you realize. You'll have to learn to do any two-handed activities with one hand, of course, but..." the Dunmer thought a moment, then shrugged. "Could be worse."

Worrying about not being able to shake hands was the last thing on Nils' mind, but he was too tired to disagree. There were a lot of things he would need two hands for. Playing the lute, holding a sword and shield, cradling an infant in his arms...

"There you are, Zaryth. What kept you?" Divayth said, eyes locked on his young apprentice who had re-entered the room with a vial of some opaque white liquid.

Nils attempted to use one hand to support himself upright, but his left arm was so weak he fell on his back again.

"Hi, Zaryth," he said, attempting to smile. It probably just made him look scarier. Not that he didn't look revolting enough already. There were maggots feasting on the stump where his arm used to be.

Could be worse.

Zaryth blinked at him. Her short reddish hair was disheveled and she looked like she was about to fall asleep where she was standing. Instead of responding to Nils' greeting, she turned to Divayth, communicating with the same clinical detachment about Patient 2292 as if he were not laying awake right in front of them.

"Shall I administer the anesthesia or would you prefer to do it yourself?"

"Let me handle this. He may still be violent," Divayth answered, gingerly taking the vial from her with two fingers.

Oh, that was rich. Nils didn't even have the strength to lift himself out of bed, and they had to assume that he could leap up at any moment and start attacking like some kind of frightened animal.

"They call me Nilseth One-Arm. Fear me."

Both mages ignored Nils, which he probably should have expected.

"Hello, everyone," he said, raising his voice now. "I'd really appreciate it if someone told me why I need to take a sedative."

Though the agony was so intense he could hardly move, Nils was already feeling alert and wakeful. He didn't want to go back to sleep already. Mostly he just wanted answers.

"Good question. You may have noticed fluctuating levels of excruciating pain throughout your body."

"No, _really?_ " Nils grimaced.

"Corprus is a degenerative disease. Your bones must look like they've been put through a cheese grater. Probably tore your muscles to ribbons too. Perhaps, with the help of a skilled healer and several months of bed rest, you just may walk again. But I can do better than that."

There was a pause made uncomfortable by just a few extra seconds.

"Is this another experimental formula, like the Corprus cure? Apologies, but I simply do not have it in me to let others play a dice game with my life again."

Nils saw Zaryth cringe. He wondered what that was about.

Divayth gave him that withering look again that told Nils he was very tired of hearing his voice.

"If by experimental, you mean 'haven't tried it before,' yes and no. I've experienced success in treating victims of rotbone, but never attempted to restructure an entire musculoskeletal system. You probably won't die if it doesn't work, if that is any consolation. I can also tell you right now that you do not want to be awake for this nasty business. Really, it's -"

Now, Nils was getting tired of hearing _Divayth's_ voice.

"Give me the damn sedative already," he mumbled, allowing Divayth to pour some cool, minty liquid down his throat.

Minutes later Nils was already starting to relax. His body felt like it was sinking into the bedroll, enveloping him in fabric where he would be safe so very safe. He probably had a stupid smile on his face but he didn't care.

Divayth started to speak again but his voice might have been underwater.

"We're going to take Patient 2292 down to the Corprusarium to perform the operation. Tell Uupse to stabilize Yagrum Bagarn before we-"

"Don't you mean Patient Zero?" Zaryth piped up. Her blue robes were so striking even when Nils' vision was a narrowing aperture.

"Eh? Oh. I get it. You're hilarious, Zaryth."

Nils didn't understand the joke but he still thought it was funny.

Now he was floating... his bedroll suddenly became a chariot to the stars above... and then everything went quiet.


	30. Mudcrab Stew

**Tel Fyr.**

Zaryth disliked waiting.

It was just plain criminal for a Telvanni mage of her caliber to squander her precious time on something as mind-numbing as _waiting._ Zaryth ought to be applying herself to infinitely more productive tasks, like... the...

Well, perhaps waiting at Nils' bedside had its uses, too. He'd been out for a while; what if he woke up alone and disoriented, stumbling out of bed only to trip over the heavy Dwemer metal chest that was in the middle of the room for no apparent reason? He'd probably break some priceless artifact, and Zaryth didn't want to have to explain that to Divayth.

Speaking of priceless Dwemer artifacts, this gave her the perfect opportunity to study that little chapbook from Rthalzeft that Yagrum had finished translating. The last known living Dwemer in all of Tamriel was a permanent resident of Divayth Fyr's Corprusarium, and the reason why Zaryth even knew so much about the Dwemer in the first place. Although Divayth often commented on how slowly the disease was progressing due to his Dwemer physiology, his lucidity had always been a transient thing, and to even have a chance to speak with him was a wondrous occasion. Uupse Fyr had the remarkable talent of consistently getting through to him, and so she transcribed Yagrum's dictations in her spidery handwriting over the fronts and backs of twenty leafs of paper, and Zaryth had been perusing the manuscript for the past five hours or so, adding her own annotations in the margins. It was all fascinating, really. In a footnote Yagrum suspected that the text was actually a Dwemeris version of a popular satirical piece written by an anonymous Chimer bard. Although this further cemented the notion that the Dwemer were incapable of intentionally contriving anything funny themselves, perhaps this meant that they could at least recognize what satire was. Regardless of where the piece originated, it was rife with metaphor and innuendo, and included an explicit passage illustrating the author's lewd assumptions of High Craftlord Kagrenac's private activities in his personal study. A lot of meaning was lost over three translations, but the intention was clearly conveyed in _that_ stanza.

Zaryth just happened to be going over the line about Kagrenac's "serpent" swelling at the sight of an automaton constructed in his image when Nils began to stir.

This caused her to jump at the sudden noise after five hours of silence from him, the papers slipping from her hands down to the spongy mushroom floor below.

"Where..." he started, wriggling himself upright. His eyes were alert, pupils contracting. His dark wavy hair was so heavy with sweat it nearly reached his shoulders.

"I'm here, Nils. The operation was-"

"Where's Peakstar?"

Nils tossed the quilt aside and began moving around the stump of his right arm, as if trying to draw circles with it. Or trying to stretch out an appendage that wasn't there.

And, without any apparent gratitude for her vigil over him the past several hours, he continued to assault Zaryth with a volley of useless questions.

"My arm – why does it still hurt? It's gone. For the love of Mara, why does it still feel like it's being crushed within a vise? Not just the arm, my bones feel different. What did you do to my bones? By the way, I'm starved. Do you have any food?"

He was awake, he was speaking, he was hungry. These were all signs that he was recovering. Even if it felt like he was pointedly ignoring her, Zaryth couldn't help but be relieved.

"Peakstar departed soon after leaving you here, only staying long enough so that Divayth could confirm she had not contracted Corprus. I don't know why your arm still hurts, but maybe you should tell your brain that it doesn't exist anymore. As I was about to explain earlier before you interrupted me, the operation was a success. Your bones should feel much _stronger_ now than they ever did before," she answered idly as she gathered together the spread of papers with a great rustle. Shameful of her to drop them all like this. She would have to rearrange the pages in order later.

"What about the food?"

"Oh, right. Uh..." Zaryth set the manuscript aside.

She had to think about this for a moment.

Admittedly, cooking was one of the few disciplines she did _not_ excel in. Zaryth knew she ought to look for Beyte. She'd be able to make something good for him.

… Not only that, cooking for others was beneath Zaryth's dignity. But she supposed she could at least get him something to eat. It'd been four excruciating days since Peakstar left him at Tel Fyr, and he'd been asleep for most of it. Now that she thought about it, Zaryth hadn't slept at all herself during those four days. It might be a good idea to do that at some point.

"I'm very hungry," Nils repeated.

"Not for Corprus flesh, I gather?"

No response.

"Because then I wouldn't have to cook," she added.

More silence. Uncomfortable silence.

Zaryth sighed. No one around here appreciated her humor.

"I'll... find something for you, I suppose," she muttered, sidling out the room with her head down.

Zaryth kept her head down as she walked through the narrow tunnels of Tel Fyr, her thoughts twisting around that dark decision she had made days earlier.

Divayth told her that she had saved Nils' life.

That was one way of putting it.

It was... extraordinary. Right now, she ought to have been analyzing the conditions and determining what it was that made Nils different from the others suffering from Corprus, and helping Divayth already hard at work down in the Corprusarium attempting to duplicate the outcome. This was a groundbreaking moment; absolutely unheard-of. Nils was essentially cured of a disease previously believed to be incurable...

But she deserved no words of praise. Yes, her entreating had treated his symptoms, 'saving' his life in a sense, but she didn't do it to save his life. She hadn't thought he _could_ be saved.

When she insisted that Divayth give Nils the potion, she assumed that it would kill him, as it had three patients before him.

She was trying to end his life.

No one had any reason to believe that Nils would respond any differently to the treatment.

But there was no way that she would be able to call him 2292 and stand by as Divayth used him as another research subject for as long as he needed him.

Nils was... well, there was no getting around it. Since she was a child, Zaryth had a difficult time getting along with other people. But Nils was someone she could call her friend. And she didn't want her friend to turn into a shambling Corprus beast, a tormented husk of what he once was.

There were many well-recorded epidemics throughout the eras, and Zaryth had read about them all.

The Knahaten Flu, the Thrassian Plague, and Red Fever were a few examples.

Even the worst recorded plagues in the history of Tamriel were nothing compared to Corprus.

At least people died from the plague.

That was the thing about Corprus patients:

They lived forever, barring accidents.

Corprus halted the aging process, gave immunity to all other illnesses.

But that was no life to live. It was a nightmare of constant agony.

Without knowing that Nils could be cured, Zaryth's decision certainly seemed the most merciful. And while she was obviously relieved that the outcome was different from her expectations, there remained a nagging in her mind that she had already given up on him as dead as she watched Divayth administer the potion.

Zaryth rubbed her face with her hands. It had been a long day...days. Spending all of her time down in the dark Corprusarium really made her lose track. Had it been three days or four?

Not like that made much of a difference, at this point. She continued in the direction of the kitchen. It'd be a bit embarrassing if she let Nils starve to death right after he had been rescued from the throes of Corprus.

Beyte was already busy in the kitchen by the time Zaryth arrived, watching over a steaming stew in an enormous cast-iron pot. Her hair was parted into two braids as usual, and she wore a linen apron over her clothing.

Well, that was convenient. The Telvanni apprentice wouldn't have to lower herself to cook for someone else, after all.

The kitchen was much warmer than the rest of the tower. Zaryth leaned against the soft organic wall of the round chamber, listening to the bubbles popping from the stew.

"Thank Azura you're here!" the peppery-haired Dunmer exclaimed as soon as she noticed her. She wiped her forehead off with a dishtowel.

"I could say the same about you," Zaryth responded dully.

"Well, I burnt my tongue earlier, so I've been having trouble tasting the stew. Could you try it for me?"

Beyte handed her a wooden ladle before she could respond.

Zaryth nearly questioned why she hadn't just used a healing spell, but then she realized it was just an excuse to get her to try it. Beyte liked hearing what other people said about her cooking. She may as well humor her.

"What's in it?" Zaryth asked, leaning forward to dip the ladle in the steamy concoction. The vapors condensed into tiny droplets on her face. That felt nice and warm. Whatever it was, this _smelled_ delicious.

"Mudcrab meat, mostly. Tossed in some ash yams, saltrice, hackle-lo, garlic..."

Crab stew. Nothing she hadn't eaten about a thousand times before. Tel Fyr was located on an island, and there was an overabundance of mudcrabs, after all...

Zaryth brought the ladle to her lips. It tasted of crab meat and ash yams and the sea, of course, but as the rich stew slid down her throat it warmed her stomach, untwisting it from that horrible knot it had been tied in.

Actually... how long had it been since _she_ had last eaten? She'd thought all that uncomfortable turning and squeezing feeling had simply been from the stress of the situation. Turned out she was just hungry.

Beyte hovered over her, eager for a response. Zaryth ignored her and took another ladleful, savoring the flavorful juices and bits of crab meat in her mouth a bit longer this time before swallowing.

"Well? How is it?"

"It's exquisite. Best I've had in a long while," Zaryth said, already setting out two bowls on a tray.

The cook smiled brightly at the compliment. Honestly, anything might have tasted delicious right now, but Beyte took a lot of pride in her cooking and Zaryth sometimes forgot to appreciate her. The other sisters sometimes mocked Beyte for what they perceived as unintelligence, probably because she showed little interest in pursuing scholarly matters and devoted most of her days to mundane tasks like cooking and cleaning (and seemed to enjoy said tasks, no less). Not like that mattered much. Even the most guar-brained Telvanni was still leagues brighter than the general populace. She would be considered smart compared to, say, _Nils_ or someone, but of the four sisters Zaryth liked Beyte most, despite her simplicity. She was thoughtful, cheerful even. Had a way of listening to people and making them feel understood.

"Oh! It's not ready yet. Divayth always prefers I let it simmer a few more hours. Softens the skin of the ash yams."

"This isn't for Master Fyr. Nils just woke up. You know. Patient 2292," Zaryth said, already filling the two limeware bowls to the brim with crab stew.

Beyte was frowning, tapping the countertop with her fingernails.

"What wretched timing! That's.. he's from Cyrodiil, right? I might've been able to whip up some Cyrodiilic cuisine for him if I had known. I suppose I still can, if you don't mind waiting a bit. Let me think what I have... I'd been saving that pumpkin for a special occasion, but I can hardly think of anything more monumental than the first successful Corprus treatment. Isn't it exciting? Right here in Tel Fyr! I heard all about it from Divayth, by the way. Nils is very lucky to have you as a friend."

"I don't know about that. Are you certain you heard all of it?"

"I do, and I did. You made the right decision. I'm sure it was unpleasant for you. But you did it anyways. I think you are wonderfully brave, Zaryth Velani. And look what came of it!"

Zaryth didn't actually have a response for that. She'd numbed herself to this all, and she just wanted to hurry up and get this tray back to Nils so that she could start eating again.

"I think you're a wonderful cook, Beyte Fyr."

"You'll think I'm even more wonderful when you taste the pumpkin pie tonight," Beyte mentioned, grinning again. She was probably the only one looking forward to that damn pie, but Zaryth smiled at her enthusiasm anyways.

"Do you think he'll like it?" Beyte suddenly asked, stupefying Zaryth momentarily as she often did with her absurdly pointless sweetness. Nils was practically a stranger to her; why would she even care?

"What does it matter if he likes it or not? We're not running a tavern over here, Beyte. He ought to appreciate whatever he's given."

Beyte looked a bit upset by that remark. Zaryth couldn't understand why.

Zaryth's journey back to the guest room was without incident. While she started on her stew she noticed that Nils had a little trouble eating with one arm at first, but he accommodated by discarding the tray, opting to sit upright and balance the bowl between his knees, leaning forward with the spoon in his left hand. It might have been easier if he'd just sat at the table to eat, but Zaryth didn't know if it was too late to mention that.

"This is delicious," he exclaimed between spoonfuls. "Did you make this yourself?"

"No," Zaryth said a little too quickly.

Silence again. Why was she so bad at this?

"I'll tell Beyte that you liked it. She'll be glad to hear it," she added.

"Beyte. What is it with them, by the way? Alfe Fyr, Delte Fyr, Beyte Fyr... who's the other one?"

"Uupse Fyr. They're... uhh... I _guess_ you could say they're Master Fyr's daughters. But they're not actually his daughters."

"You mean he adopted them?" Nils asked.

Zaryth didn't know the best way to go about explaining this. Suddenly she missed the uncomfortable silence.

"No. He _designed_ them."

Well, there was that silence again. She turned away, but could still hear Nils sipping away.

"I mean... it's... Master Fyr replicated himself. Four times. In female form. He... teleported to different planes and imprinted copies of his existence. It's too complicated for me to explain how that all works, and why they are all female. They're all Divayth Fyr, on a fundamental, biological level, but they all have vastly different personalities and we treat them as individuals. Does... does that make sense?"

Heat was rising to her face. She still couldn't bring herself to turn around and look at him.

Instead, she heard a chuckle.

"You know, I'm probably supposed to be disturbed by this or something, and a week ago I may have very well been, but after everything that's happened lately... still, forgive me if that seems a bit... odd, only that he'd use that knowledge for something like _that_."

Zaryth only became more flustered. Words tumbled out unwarranted.

"It's...! I mean, he treats them very well, and it's not like they're _prisoners_ or slaves or... he doesn't force them into anything – they're here on their own volition – apparently there was also a Gemma Fyr, whom I haven't met, but she left Tel Fyr ages ago. No one knows where she is now. What I'm saying is – yes, they were created through unconventional means, and were not born from a womb, but that doesn't mean that they're not _people_."

There was a pause that seemed to last forever. Zaryth had lived with Alfe, Beyte, Delte, and Uupse for most of her life, and they were the closest thing she had to siblings. The thought never occurred to her that they weren't really people. They had souls... actually, Zaryth wasn't certain if they had black souls or white souls. She'd never asked. What a disconcerting idea; Beyte having the same type of soul as a mudcrab.  
"They seem happy enough," was all Nils said before he went back to sipping the stew. His non-reaction was a bit of a relief. Usually people were positively mortified upon discovering the truth about Divayth's "daughters." Perhaps suffering through Corprus and losing his right arm really broadened his tolerance of weird things.

Zaryth let out a long exhale. She didn't know if she needed to say anything else, so she resumed eating as well.

Though the mudcrab stew sated her hunger and made her feel a lot warmer, it did nothing to assuage her mounting guilt. Despite her efforts to suppress that feeling, any time she looked at Nils she was reminded that he was only alive because she had tried to kill him.  
It was difficult to tell if Nils understood. Divayth mentioned it (quite bluntly) during his brief moment of consciousness, but had he been awake enough to make the connection? Did he remember? What kind of person would he think that she was if he knew?

After they had both finished eating and set their empty bowls aside, Zaryth turned again to observe Nils. He smiled when he saw that she was looking at him. This made it even worse. Nils was _happy_ to see her. The guilt felt like it was slowly crushing her – like heavy rocks being pressed upon her chest.

"Erm... how are you feeling?" she ventured with some trepidation.

"Much better, especially after that stew. Well, I mean... I'm going to have to get used to having one arm, and it still hurts like nothing else, and on top of everything I had another strange dream about Azura, but... well, I'm alive, which is something to be thankful for. You're here, too. I'm very glad for that."

More rocks were added to the weight upon her chest. But she ignored this and focused on the interesting part of his statement.

"You... had a vision from Azura?"

"Maybe. If it truly was a vision I wish it had been a little more informative, but she's rather imprecise, isn't she?"

Zaryth didn't know how to respond, so Nils spoke again.

"How are you feeling?"

"Uh." That question threw her off. He was the one in bed, recovering from Corprus sans right arm. "I'm alright, I think."

She was also a terrible liar.

"You're a terrible liar," Nils confirmed.

"I know, I know!" Zaryth threw her hands up in the air. "I think I'm just tired. Stayed up to help Master Fyr with your treatment, and then I was up here for a while reading this-" she waved the bundle of translated papers in the air.

"I think you should get some rest, Zaryth. It wouldn't do if you fell ill because of me. You've done a great job keeping me alive already – thank you for that, by the way."

Zaryth grimaced. "It's not – it's not like that!" She shook her head vigorously. "The potion – Nils, the potion, I..."

Her voice was cracking. This wasn't good. Zaryth wanted to be away from all of this right now but she had to tell him.

She swallowed hard. Words weren't coming right now. Her hands opened and closed and she stared at the walls which seemed to be closing in on her as she tried to make sense of what she was even thinking.

He was still listening with silent patience. How was she supposed to tell him? Where were her _words_?

"Divayth... wanted to keep you alive. For more tests. The potion, Divayth's potion, it didn't work. It was supposed to work, not... not to cure the disease but negate the unpleasant symptoms, but it didn't. It killed some patients before, and there was no reason to believe you were different. I thought it would kill you, and I told him to give it to you. I didn't – didn't –"

It was difficult to articulate when her breathing had hastened into short gasps and her thoughts were just as rapid and broken. She couldn't even look at Nils. Forcing herself to inhale deeply several times, Zaryth managed to gather her thoughts before speaking again, but she didn't know if she was making any sense.

"I didn't want you to have to suffer for that long. Couldn't even tell you how many people I've watched turn into bloated husks in the Corprusarium. I grew up here, Nils. I grew up watching Master Fyr studying people suffering from the worst disease that anyone has ever heard about, and it's been around for thousands of years and no one's found a cure, so why should you have to go through that too? Didn't want you to be like... them. You... no, _no_ one deserves that."

Zaryth tightly clutched the supports of the chair and hunched over, trembling from the intensity of her grip. She was going to cry – no, she didn't want to cry here. Not here, not now, not in front of him. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears threatening to fall.

Nils wasn't saying anything. All she heard were some bedsheets rustling. Zaryth _hated_ this pause in conversation most of all; she wished he would just respond so that she would know if he hated her or if he was disappointed or if maybe he understood or just if he was feeling _anything_ at all-

"Thank you."

The voice was soft, barely a whisper, and it was directly behind her. Nils was there, out of bed, and he was gently rubbing her back with his left hand. Zaryth kept her eyes closed. Now she knew she was going to cry. She released the excess air in her lungs, slowly, but a short sob still escaped her.

"I don't want you to feel this way, Zaryth. Sometimes... we have to make decisions, and the best decision isn't always the one that makes us feel good, it's the one that – oh, Divines, I still haven't told you about Hassour, have I? I'll tell you about that later. There was this cave... with Dreamers... I made the same decision as you... end their torment... but they were a bunch of strangers to me. I can't imagine how painful it must have been for you to make that decision for a friend. Thank you so much."

Zaryth released her grip on the chair. Eyes still closed, she sprung to her feet and blindly reached out with her hands until she found him, embracing him tightly. The tears finally did come, but now she was crying into him and probably making messy wet marks on his shirt. But he didn't seem to care, and he pulled her closer with his left arm, resting his head on her shoulder. She could feel the stump of his right arm moving too, as if he was still trying to use that arm in the embrace. Zaryth had read about phantom limbs before. One of those pesky afflictions of the mind that couldn't be cured by healing spell. It would take a long time before Nils would stop feeling an invisible right arm.

"I just... I'm really glad that you're alive," Zaryth managed to say, though her words were muffled.

After what felt like an eternity they pulled away from the hug, finally.

"You know, I'm glad that I'm alive, too."

Zaryth couldn't help but laugh in spite of the tears. She wasn't even ashamed about crying anymore. More importantly, that terrible guilty feeling had lifted from her chest.

Suddenly she felt very, very tired. How many days had it been again?

It hit her like a tidal wave. Zaryth collapsed into the chair. Her vision darkened and she was seeing stars.

"I... think I'm going to go to sleep here, if you don't mind..." she mumbled. Right here, in the chair, because her bed was too far away...

Nils started tugging at her arm, as if trying to pull her up. Didn't work when he only had one hand to do that.

"Hm. I know... Okay. Open your eyes," he said.

Annoyed that he was still bothering her, Zaryth cracked one eye open and saw Nils kneeling in front of the chair like a footstool, crouched forward.

"Climb on my back. I'll carry you to your room."

"Ugh. Too tired. Uh... shouldn't you be in bed?"

"If you fall asleep here, you'll wake up with a stiff back. No one wants that."

"You should be in bed..." Zaryth repeated, but it didn't seem like she would be able to make him go away. Sleepily, she crawled onto him, wrapping both arms over his shoulders to clasp around his neck.

"Gods, you're like a feather. Where's your room?" he asked once she was secure enough for him to stand up again.

Zaryth couldn't handle giving directions when she was half-asleep. She could at least tell him _what_ it looked like before she passed out. Sleep was very tempting right now, but she knew she had to wait.

"It's... close to here. You have to go through a narrow passage... There's a dodecagram drawn in black on the door... green door."

"A whata-gram?"

"A star with twelve points, Nils. Don't you ever _read_?"

"Alright, I think I can work with this." With that, he started walking. Zaryth held onto him tighter. She had to trust that he wouldn't get himself hopelessly lost in Tel Fyr because she couldn't keep her eyes open to navigate for him. Some time passed and she already felt herself dangerously dipping in and out of consciousness. She was slipping...

"By the way, I read plenty of books. One time, I read this book by someone named Marobar Sul," he mentioned casually.

"Did you... burn it?" mumbled Zaryth, irritated.

"No, I wanted to share it with all of my friends, naturally. There was this lovely tale about a Dwemer who played a trick on Azura with a box..."

She wanted to kick him but she'd probably fall off. Instead, she just grasped him tighter with her arms and legs.

"Yes, yes, I know the story. I hope you are aware of the part you have played in proliferating harmful misinformation about the Dwemer race. Are you pleased with yourself?"

"As a matter of fact, yes; now I know you won't fall asleep and lose your grip."

It took a moment for Zaryth to understand, and then she laughed.

Was this what it might have felt like to have a brother?

There was no way for her to know. But she did know that she was very happy that he was alive.


	31. Revenant

**Azura's Coast.**

It didn't take long at all for Nils to grow restless at Tel Fyr. Less than a day after his surgery Nils was making preparations to leave, only to be coerced into staying almost a week longer for additional "recovery." It was less about his recovery and more Divayth Fyr fussing over him with countless tests and examinations in some attempt to explain this outrageous phenomenon. Nils himself didn't know why, and he didn't like what the others were implying in whispers. He wasn't the Nerevarine. Was there anything in the Ashlander legends about the Nerevarine being an amputee? How could Nils be the savior of Morrowind if it took him nearly ten minutes to lace his boots?

And the pain. Oh, sure, he knew it wasn't real. Divayth called it a "phantom limb." But to Nils, it was a constant agony. The vengeful ghost of his right arm continued to haunt him with tingling, squeezing, prickling. If he could chop off his invisible limb, he would. Even without the numbing medicine Divayth had given him.

He wanted to go home. To Cheydinhal. To his family.

But that life was gone, and he couldn't return. Not yet. Caius would tell him when he could go home. _If_ he could.

Right now, he had another way to make himself useful. If he wasn't the Nerevarine, he could help Peakstar, who was a far more likely candidate. That silly little book from Rthalzeft that had carried him through much of his journey was finally translated, and to Zaryth's disappointment it turned out to be of little scholarly value. However, many of the details and references to locations correlated with statements made in other contemporary texts, and they were able to piece together a rough map of the Red Mountain region that he imagined would be of use to Peakstar.

He didn't know where the ambitious young Ashlander had left to, but Mehra Milo might have that knowledge.

Divayth happened to know the location of the secret monastery of the Dissident Priests. A forgotten temple on a tiny island, built by Azura worshipers during the Merethic Era. They could easily make the trip in four hours, provided the winds were in their favor.

And so, they set off in a skiff, carried by a fortunate southerly wind. Nils was relieved that Zaryth volunteered to accompany him, for she could work the sails while he kept his hand on the rudder.

"What are you going to do after this?" Zaryth asked.

"I don't know," Nils admitted truthfully. "Maybe I'll head to Balmora."

"Oh, _right_ ," Zaryth said with a hint of derision. "You're an important spy for the Empire or something."

Nils laughed out loud. It felt good to laugh. Though he probably should be concerned that Zaryth knew more than Caius would be comfortable with regarding Nils' Imperial associations he couldn't bring himself to care about that anymore. Sees-Through-Dusk didn't seem to consider Zaryth a threat to their security. The Telvanni were notoriously apathetic regarding affairs that had nothing to do with House Telvanni. Zafirbel Bay was the center of Nirn, as far as they were concerned.

"Maybe that's what they _want_ you to think," Nils intoned mysteriously.

"That's – that's stupid. If you're not a spy, but you have ties to the Empire, what are you?"

"Alright, alright." This was actually fun. Nils pulled a solemn face. "Don't tell anyone. The Blades have eyes and ears everywhere. Do you hear me? Don't tell _anyone._ Not even Master Fyr. If you do, I cannot ensure your safety."

Zaryth nodded grimly, pulling her lips into a straight line, but her eyes were sparkling with curiosity.

"It was Last Seed when I arrived here. I was in the Imperial City, still serving an indefinite prison sentence. But one night, completely out of nowhere, two Blades shackled me and brought me out of my cell. They forced me into some kind of covered wagon – I couldn't really see anything, it was so dark – and then there was a lot of traveling, with no one telling me what was going on. Next thing I know they're putting me on a boat, a boat to Vvardenfell, but I didn't know it at the time, and then... well, some other things happened, and this old Imperial who looked more like a skooma addict than a spymaster told me that the Emperor himself selected me to fulfill the Nerevarine prophecies and cast down Dagoth Ur at Red Mountain and save Morrowind – or at least the Empire's stake in it. But if I save Morrowind while I'm at it that's nice too, I suppose. Might be a bit difficult to do it with one arm, though."

Zaryth was staring at him. She wasn't even blinking. It was as if her face were frozen in time.

The sea-wind was whipping Nils' hair all over the place, which was becoming a nuisance. If he had a free hand he'd use it to pull it back, or at the very least brush the fly-away strands out of his face. But he had to keep his left hand on the rudder. He still felt the thousand needles in the space where his right arm used to be. It wouldn't be so bad if he could just open and close his nonexistent fist, or even _move_ it out of this position.

"I can't tell if you're making fun of me, or if all you Imperial-types are constantly in a state of skooma intoxication and truly believe your own delusions," Zaryth finally said, still staring incredulously.

"Anything to make the pain go away, right?" Nils said with a wink.

 **Holamayan.**

"Is this it?"

Zaryth asked this once they reached the nameless islet, double-checking the marker on their map. Nils immediately recognized this place. The feverish memories returned. He had been here before, though his mind had only been half in this world because of Corprus. He had seen the ribbed stone arches jutting out at the top of the hill, nearly hidden by waist-high kreshweed and muckspunges.

"It's definitely it. I'm bringing us around; there should be a dock."

Indeed, there was a dock on the south end of the nameless islet. The dinghy Peakstar used to ferry Nils to Tel Fyr was already hitched to the post. He watched the unassuming wooden boat floating idly in the water, bobbing up and down with the gentle waves as he remembered the journey that was anything but gentle. Even now, Dagoth Ur still haunted his dreams. He wore a golden mask and called him Nerevar. Nils had not told this to anyone. Not even Zaryth.

"Well?" the Dunmer asked, snapping Nils out of his reverie. She had already finished tying the skiff to the other post.

"I think you could have used a different knot," he observed, commenting on her sloppy attempt at a bowline.

"Not like you can do anything better in your state," she grumbled, hopping out of the boat and stretching herself out.

Nils didn't know why that comment stung, but it did.

Still, she reinforced the knot at his suggestion, and together they made their way up the steep hill, stumbling over outcrops of rocks. The overgrown facade of the temple gave the appearance that this place had been abandoned for a very long time, and if Nils had not seen the boat, he would have believed that. The only sound save for them trudging up the slope was the constant hum of late-afternoon insects. Occasionally they would see the remnants of a stone path, but for the most part Holamayan had been retaken by nature.

Finally, Nils and Zaryth stopped in front of the entrance, or at least what appeared to be the entrance. There was nothing there save for a convex stone megalith curved underneath the arches.

"There's no door," Zaryth said.

"Maybe we should knock," Nils proposed, prompting an eye-roll from Zaryth. Still, both of them took turns pounding at the slab, yet it would not budge. Circling around the rest of the small formation, Nils concluded that most of the temple had to be beneath their feet. More importantly, there had to be some other kind of entrance... but where?

"Now what do we do?" Zaryth asked.

Nils sat down on a rock. The Telvanni did the same.

"We wait. Peakstar's boat is still here."

And so they waited. Zaryth dozed, but Nils kept his eyes open. He did not want to risk sleeping, because sleep meant Sixth House nightmares. Instead, he leaned against the rock along the coast, staring at the twisting spires and onion-domed towers of a distant Dwemer ruin on the mainland. Nchurdamz, according to the map. Nils wondered if the ash creatures populated that city as well.

A hand grasped his shoulder. Nils leaped to his feet and whirled around.

No one. No one but the Inner Sea.

Waves. Waves crashing against the cliffs to form surf. The gurgling of a Dreugh. The sand-grass whispering in the wind.

The wind. That had to be it. He was imagining things, from too little sleep.

" _Come, Nerevar..."_

Nils squeezed his eyes shut. He focused on the needles in his right arm. His invisible right arm, he reminded himself. The squeezing, crushing pressure that just would not go away.

Just before moonrise, when the sky was a milky purple and the sun had just dipped below the horizon, Nils heard a scraping sound, like stone against stone.

He nudged Zaryth. She opened one eye.

"Wake up. The gate to Holamayan is opening."

Like a stone parasol being lifted, the enormous slab was rising. Nils slung the bag over his shoulder and approached the hooded archway it revealed.

A single figure stood tall at the entrance to Holamayan, partially hidden in shadow, red eyes glowing, arms crossed over the chest. Hair loosely braided, tied with a black ribbon.

Nils squinted. It was her, all right.

Peakstar was back in her usual netch leathers, without her red scarf and goggles. Made sense. There were no ash storms inside of the monastery.

He was relieved to see that she was safe. There were so many things that he wanted to tell her, but more than anything he needed to thank her for all that she went through to save him. He owed her his life. He did not take that lightly.

"Peakstar!" he started, breaking into a wide grin. He opened his arms out to her.

Yet Peakstar's eyes widened in horror as soon as she recognized Nils bounding towards her.

"Away!" she shouted, hands forming an orb of golden light which she flung in his direction, too quickly for Nils to react. The spell hit him directly in his chest. He felt a rush of warmth through his body, and then... nothing. What kind of attack was that?

No. More importantly, why was she attacking him in the first place?

Zaryth stepped in front of Nils, livid. "Are you _mad?_ " she squawked, absolutely nonplussed.

Then, Peakstar pointed at Zaryth. Her finger was trembling with rage. Eyes dark with hatred directed singly toward the young mage. Even her reddish hair looked to be on fire as it came undone from its braid.

"What foul necromancy have you conjured here, Telvanni?" Her voice was low and dangerous, hand reaching for the spear at her back.

Zaryth scoffed in response, hand coming up to her chest as if slightly affronted by Peakstar's audacious accusation.

"What necromancy? Nils is alive, you overzealous shalk-herder!"

Peakstar released her spear, gasped for breath. She took a step backward, supporting herself against the stone wall. The Ashlander was shaking her head, unable to look at Nils or Zaryth.

"No... that is impossible... he suffered the Curse-of-Flesh. No one survives the Curse-of-Flesh," she said, more to her own bewildered self than to either of them.

Nils stepped forward. He gently placed his left hand on her shoulder. She flinched.

"But I did. The Corprus disease has been purged from my body. I lost my right arm, but I survived. Look at me, Peakstar. I am not an undead abomination, nor am I a ghost of your mind. I am alive now, and it is thanks to you."

Zaryth crossed her arms. "And Divayth Fyr," she grumbled.

Nils smirked. "Yes, a certain Telvanni wizard was the one who cured me. But the cure was only effective on me, for some-"

Peakstar abruptly dropped to her knees.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

Tears of ecstasy.

Nils was taken aback. Zaryth watched all of this with a skeptical eye, letting her arms fall to her sides.

For a moment that felt like an eternity, Peakstar gazed up at Nils with the wonder of a child, glimmering eyes lost in religious euphoria. Clasping his only hand, she began to speak, voice trembling with reverence.

"I... I am a false incarnate. Forgive me, Outlander hero; you are truly Nerevar reborn!"


End file.
